


Present Imperfect

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [49]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU of The Cost of Doing Business, Alternate Reality, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21936907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: Overnight, Greg Parker’s team changes, leaving him utterly bewildered by this new team.  Who’s this guy Raf and where’s Wordy?  As Greg pieces together the clues, he finds himself with yet another question.  If someone altered reality, why wasn’t he affected?  And how’s he supposed to fix this mess?  AU of The Cost of Doing Business
Relationships: Kevin "Wordy" Wordsworth/Shelley Wordsworth
Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [49]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/538363
Comments: 36
Kudos: 14





	1. Migraine Monday

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for 04x10: The Cost of Doing Business. Pretty much the entire episode. And I am using dialogue from the episode. This story is the forty-ninth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Simon Says".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.

“Now do you understand? Do you see?” the woman screamed at her captive, knife clenched tightly in her fist.

He cringed back against the wall he was kneeling beside, panting. Ruffled dark blonde hair, cut short, but still long enough that the bangs hung over his forehead, shook in time with his labored breathing and trembling. Blue eyes gazed up at his captor, fear, sympathy, and sorrow mixing in their depths.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, not daring to say anything more. Hoping, praying he wouldn’t escalate her even more.

She stared at him, dismay twisting her face at the lack of recognition on his. “You don’t know?”

Confusion furrowed his forehead, brows drawing together, sweat gleaming on his face and in his hair. The sweat dripped down his arm, trickling over a silver bracelet on his left wrist. Green flickered, shifted to black. Around his neck, a black leather choker embedded with a crystal went unnoticed in the darkness. Magic curled around the crystal, which glowed a tainted red, black mixing and streaking the bloody hue.

Her brother called her name, but she stayed focused on _him_. “You don’t know who I am?”

Blue unfocused and her captive gasped as if he wasn’t getting enough air; though his body shook with fear and dread, chest heaving for oxygen, his silence made the answer clear to her.

Her grip tightened on her knife. “Then I’ll make sure that you never forget.”

Unnoticed by either sibling, the badge on their captive’s belt flared to life, the eagle above the crossed sword, rifle, and wand letting out a silent cry.

* * * * *

_181 hours earlier (1 week earlier)_

Brown eyes snapped open, their owner gasping as his stomach rebelled. Mentally, he fought back, suppressing the nausea with stubborn, iron will. Rolling on his side, the man groaned, clutching his head; pain slammed through him, from the jackhammers in his skull to the chills running up and down his spine, the nausea, and the tremors racking his muscles.

Trembling, he pushed himself up, heading for the bathroom; he flicked the light on, gasped, and slammed it off. Darkness enfolded him, soothing light-sensitive eyes while he threw up in the toilet. Minutes later, Greg Parker staggered back to his feet after flushing the mess and studied his reflection. Haggard, pale, and in no shape to work. Shaky fingers pulled the mirror outwards and he tugged the strongest pain meds in the apartment down. The child-proof lid nearly defeated him, but he persisted, tossing back two pills and dry-swallowing.

Shivering violently, he stumbled back to his bedroom, locating his landline and squinting to keep the dim light out of his eyes. He dialed the number from memory, hitting the call button an instant before he happened to glance over at his bedside clock. 2:17 AM gazed serenely back at him.

He winced even as his boss picked up with a brisk, worried, “Commander Holleran speaking.”

“Sir?” Greg rasped, “Sorry to call so early…”

The commander audibly relaxed. “No rest for the sick, Greg?”

“Something like that.” The words scraped against his raw throat.

“All right, Sergeant, stay home. Call me this evening if you need tomorrow off.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The phone clicked off and Parker crawled back under his covers, suppressing a groan as the world decided to spin around him; his chest and stomach clenched with cold, even under the layers of sheets and blankets. A sense of _wrongness_ assaulted him, but he was too miserable to pay much notice. Somehow, despite the searing headache, he went back to sleep.

* * * * *

When he opened his eyes again, morning peeked through the windows. His stomach churned with nausea and hunger, so Greg forced himself out of bed and made his way to the kitchen in search of something plain enough to keep down. Inside, he found his _nipotes_ , both of them just as miserable as he was and gazing up at him with dull hope that they wouldn’t be sent anywhere except back to bed.

The Sergeant reversed course and retrieved the pain meds from the bathroom. Back in the kitchen, he popped the bottle open and dispensed the relief within to his suffering charges. “I’ll call the school,” Greg said. “None of us is going anywhere today.”

All he got were nods, before his _nipotes_ slunk back towards their bedrooms. With a ginger shake of his head, Parker found his kitchen phone and called the school. The woman on the other end promised to let the kids’ teachers know and the negotiator thanked her before hanging up and going back to bed himself.

* * * * *

Mid-afternoon, with the nausea finally ebbing and his hunger demanding attention, Greg made his way to the kitchen and rummaged through the ‘fridge for leftovers. The roast beef Wordy had brought them over the weekend, joking that Shelley insisted on ‘paying’ the kids, caught his eye and he tugged the ceramic container out. Three chunks of beef migrated to his plate and he grabbed a handy microwave-safe lid to cover the plate before warming his meal.

Parker headed for the living room with his bounty, only to pause in the doorway at the sight of a feathered tail peeking out from behind the coffee table. Curious, he craned his neck and suppressed a snicker at the sight of his fledgling wedged between table and couch. Illishar turned his head, whining at his uncle and plainly disinclined to move.

Shaking his head, Greg returned to the kitchen and settled at the table to eat. Partway through, his ‘team sense’ flared to life; he started, tensing – the _last_ time his ‘team sense’ had done this, Eddie had gotten shot. But no fresh pain radiated through him and the emotions – a dizzying mix of affection, glee, irritation, dismay, and more – held no hint of trouble. In fact, it felt very much like he was being bombarded by his _entire_ team, something that hadn’t happened in _years_.

The Sergeant grimaced, reaching inwards to flick the ‘team sense’ off…he was _sick_ , he was _off_ , Eddie could handle things today…but after a few moments, it surged within him; his stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. Stubbornly, Greg forced his ‘team sense’ off again, but as soon as his attention slipped, it turned on once more. After a few more tries resulted in failure, he gave up; his team’s emotions were forcing the ‘team sense’ on and there was nothing he could do about it.

Too lost in misery to wonder why his constables, normally keen to keep their emotions to themselves as much as possible, were suddenly sending every last scrap his way while he was off _sick_ , Greg Parker went back to bed again, wondering if his nephew would mind changing _him_ to gryphon form if it meant his headache would go away.


	2. Warped Tuesday

Creeping into the locker room and sporting sunglasses indoors was not his best course of action. Frankly, the Sergeant would’ve been much better served by calling in sick again, but the nausea was gone, his headache was down, and the chills had surrendered to an extra layer, so Greg Parker declared himself well enough to work, drove his kids to school, and headed for the barn.

Inside the locker room, he swapped his sweat clothes for his uniform, suppressing a shiver and snatching his sunglasses up again. Behind the glasses, one eyebrow hiked when he noticed Wordy’s locker door hanging open. Grumbling under his breath, Greg crossed to the locker and closed it firmly before returning to his own locker to slip his clothes inside. Done changing, he left and headed for the dispatcher’s desk to find his stack of paperwork.

* * * * *

If anyone had asked Parker why he’d been so determined to come to work when he knew he wasn’t quite recovered, he would’ve answered with a glare and brandished a ream of white paper. Paperwork, the Sergeant maintained, bred worse than rabbits in addition to being all the evidence _he’d_ ever required for the theory of spontaneous generation. Even a single day off sick had expanded his normally tedious task to one of Herculean proportions…at least that was how the still-under-the-weather officer _saw_ it.

By the time his team leader turned up, Greg’s seething resentment had dulled to his usual resignation in the face of the pen-and-paper onslaught. The sunglasses, still firmly in place, had proved just as effective in dealing with a lingering migraine as they had with hangovers, translating into a godsend for the officer. To the Sergeant’s surprise, Ed strode into the briefing room; no attempt to sneak in or even keep quiet when his sunglasses – and the dim overhead lights – _had_ to be a dead-giveaway that he wasn’t feeling well.

“Morning, Ed,” Greg said, glancing up from his work and tipping the sunglasses down enough to let his friend see his eyes. Though it had been over a decade, he still vividly recalled the day Ed had snatched his sunglasses off his head to check his eyes for hangover redness. He’d found it… Parker pushed away the old shame.

“How you feeling, Greg?”

“Like I got kicked by a horse,” was the frank reply. “I won’t be doing any workouts today, Eddie.”

“Copy,” Lane agreed. Glancing up, he asked, “Too bright?” Testing. Insulting if he hadn’t been doing his job as Parker’s friend and onetime sobriety buddy.

“Migraine.”

The team leader relaxed, understanding warming blue eyes. “You want me to get anything?”

Parker shook his head. “I took two pain pills this morning; I’ve got more if I need ‘em.” A rueful smile peeked out. “All three of us were down.”

Bewilderment met his statement. “All…three of you?”

Brows hiked, furrowing with confusion. “ _Mio nipotes_ …?” Greg prodded, dragging the sentence out and letting it hang in reminder.

“Boss, you know I don’t speak Italian,” Ed protested.

Years of negotiations kept his lower jaw firmly attached to his upper, though his teeth clicked. Don’t speak…what the…?

“Are you seeing someone other than Marina?”

Shock throbbed, increasing his headache by a factor of ten; aside from a mental wince, Greg held his position – and his mask. Desperately buying time to come up with an answer, Parker asked, “How’s the team?”

Ed frowned at the blatant subject change, but complied. “Nothing new since last week, Boss. We were secondary yesterday, no warrants, no call outs.”

“Training and workouts. Today too?”

The team leader nodded agreement. “Spike and Lou are working on cracking that new security system that came out last month, Jules and Sam are going head-to-head on the mat, and I’m running Raf through a couple negotiation practice sessions.”

_Raf?_ Instinct buried the question before he could ask, his sixth sense churning and on high alert. With a little time to think, he’d placed the name ‘Marina’ – but it still made no _sense_. He did remember, with a touch of chagrin, how she’d come by the barn numerous times with snacks for his team, clearly attempting to catch his eye, but it had been transference. Nothing more. The negotiator had finally pulled her aside and gently explained his observations before offering her a deal. If, in six _months_ and not a day less, she still wanted a date, he would oblige _after_ she met his teenage charges. She’d accepted and both of them had moved on, though Greg made sure to mark his calendar so he’d know if she tried to contact him too early.

Ed’s implication that he was _dating_ her was both unwelcome and bewildering – where on _Earth_ had he come up with _that_ idea? But far more importantly, who was ‘Raf’ and why hadn’t his team leader mentioned Wordy?

“So?” Demanding, impatient.

Gazing back, Greg kept his expression bland, well aware Ed had returned to the prior topic. Perhaps a less subtle prod… “Unless Marina sees my teenage niece and nephew as competition, she has nothing to worry about.”

“ _You_ have a niece and nephew?” Lane blurted, eyes wide.

Parker swallowed down his first half-dozen retorts – every last one about how Eddie already _knew_ that and where had Ed _been_ for the past _four_ years – and merely cast his subordinate a sardonic look.

Catching that his boss had said all he intended to say on the subject, the team leader scowled and departed, irritation and annoyance wafting behind him.

At the briefing table, Greg sagged and let his breath out. What in the _world_ was going on?

* * * * *

Rafik Rousseau – the newest member of Team One according to Eddie, but _not_ according to the computer. Hazel narrowed, brows snapping together and drawing a furrow on his forehead as he inspected the screen. According to Rousseau’s _file_ , he was a junior detective for Guns ‘n’ Gangs, low man on the totem pole and still getting his feet wet. In fact, as far as the _computer_ was concerned, Kevin James Wordsworth was still very much a Team One constable. Which begged the question…what was a Guns ‘n’ Gangs detective – who _wasn’t_ either Roy Lane or Giles Onasi – doing on Team One and where was his constable?

Greg pushed back from the computer, frowning to himself and interlacing his fingers as he sorted through his information. He’d checked the transcripts first and Wordy’s name was all over them, even the ones after his attempt to transfer out of the SRU. The computer concurred with the transcripts and both were completely in line with his own recollection. A discreet check of the locker room had revealed an empty locker instead of one filled with Wordy’s belongings…which made sense, actually. If the whole of Team One – as well as Wordy – believed he wasn’t on the team any more, then there was no reason for Wordy’s gear to be in the SRU locker room.

Magic, it had to be…and yet it had left some rather large gaps in the form of digital and physical records. Not to mention in the shape of one SRU Sergeant who remembered the _real_ timeline. The remnants of his migraine throbbed and Parker removed his sunglasses long enough to lean over and rub his eyes. An instant later, realization slammed into him; he’d gotten sick, his kids had gotten sick, and _no one else had_. And the kids had recovered faster than he had… He still had a migraine bad enough to need both meds and sunglasses, but the kids’ headaches had been gone after a good night’s rest. Could their illness have been their magic fighting back against a spell trying to rewrite their memories? It made sense, a sick sort of sense that left his stomach twisting.

It wasn’t just Wordy either…Ed didn’t remember his _nipotes_ and thought he was dating Marina. _She_ probably thought that, too. Wonderful. Parker shook the irritation away – what else, what el…se… Magic… Sam might remember magic – he _was_ Squib-born – but the rest of Team One? He wasn’t putting any bets on it. The Sergeant snatched for his phone, muttering under his breath as he flipped through the contact list and hit the speed dial for Giles’ phone.

“Come on, come on.”

But the phone rang and rang and finally went to an automated voicemail message without ever being answered. Greg didn’t leave a message, instead hanging up and dialing Locksley’s number from memory. Her phone wasn’t picked up either, forcing the SRU Sergeant to admit defeat. Discouraged, he stared at the magical device – how was he supposed to fix this mess? He might be immune to the effects – for now at any rate – but that…that didn’t make him invincible. Didn’t make him any more magical than he’d been two days ago.

He jumped when his phone rang and brought it up. “Parker.”

“Uncle Greg?”

The negotiator pushed himself up, concern rising. “Lance? What’s wrong? Why aren’t you in class?”

A sniffle, as if his nephew had been crying… Gryphon instincts flared, tightening the Sergeant’s shoulders. “We’re going back, Uncle Greg, but our teachers…they didn’t recognize us…”

“They didn’t recognize you?” No. No, no, no. Had this…spell…hit the kids’ _teachers_ too?

“No, they thought we snuck in or something. They sent us to the office so the secretary could call our parents…” Another sniff and Greg cringed. Four years and his _nipotes_ were still grieving. “But we gave her our student IDs and she found us in the computer.”

“Greg?”

Parker held up a hand and Eddie halted, watching as his boss paced back and forth, his entire focus on his nephew. “So since she found you in the computer, she’s sending you back to class?”

“Yeah.” The word trembled. “I asked if I could call you first, though.”

“I’m glad you did.” A rough plan formed. “After school, come straight back,” the Sergeant ordered. “We’ll talk more when I get home.”

“Copy,” his nephew whispered, understanding his uncle needed to go.

Protectiveness surged, demanding he swoop in and pull his _nipotes_ out _now_ , but Parker throttled his instinctive reaction, clenching the phone until his wild side subsided. Then he turned to his team leader, tilting his head in inquiry.

“Everything okay, Boss?”

A wan smile found its way to the surface. “It will be, Ed. It will be.” And never mind that he had no idea how to keep that silent promise. He’d keep it. Somehow. “Something you needed?”

“Ah, was wondering if you’d be willing to help me with Raf?”

“Negotiating scenarios.”

“That’s right.”

Parker located his shades and donned them. “Ready.”

He’d find a way… _they’d_ find a way. They had to. He wanted his _team_ back.


	3. Clues, Questions, and a Plan

Greg stepped inside his apartment, a sigh of relief slipping free as he leaned his head back against the wood for a moment. He let himself rest a moment, then straightened and headed for the kitchen. They didn’t have much time, not if his suspicions were correct.

“Status,” he rapped out as he entered the small room.

Lance recovered first. “None of our teachers or classmates recognize us,” he reported. “But our grades and attendance are still on our teachers’ computers.”

“Along with the work we did,” Alanna tacked on. “My homeroom teacher was _really_ confused.”

The Sergeant frowned. “So this is risking the Statute,” he murmured.

“Risking? More like _obliterating_ it,” Lance said, sarcasm reeking. “Everybody’s memory getting changed, but _nothing_ else?”

Parker grimaced, pacing away and back. “Point,” he admitted softly. “Wordy’s gone.”

“ _What?_ ” both teenagers demanded.

“If the two of you hadn’t come up with that bracelet, he would’ve had to transfer out,” Greg reminded them. “Since no one remembers you…”

“What about Uncle Lou?” Alanna asked, worry shining.

“He’s fine,” Parker reassured her. “It’s possible that whoever cast this spell didn’t realize Lou should be affected too…it’s been two years since the Eco-Terror Bombings after all.”

“Or they skipped him ‘cause that was too much to cover up,” Lance theorized. “Uncle Wordy was just transferring.”

“Both possibilities,” Greg acknowledged. “Unfortunately, between yesterday and today, I also seem to have acquired a girlfriend.”

Dead silence; his kids blinked at him owlishly, dumbfounded and struggling to grasp what they’d just been told. “ _You_ have a girlfriend?” Lance finally asked.

Amusement broke through; the idea of one’s parent – or guardian – dating tended to be rather alien to most kids. That said, Greg knew his charges wouldn’t begrudge him if he ever _did_ decide to date again – he’d just never had the time or inclination to do so. And he’d known the kids would meet Marina before any dates – assuming she was still interested once his six month wait period was up. If they hadn’t liked her…

With a sigh, he explained, “From what I’ve been able to pick up, in the… _altered_ …timeline, Jules encouraged me to give this woman a shot.”

“Aunt Jules did? Why’d she have to?” Alanna wondered.

Fudge. He wasn’t doing this right. “Okay, her name is Marina and my team rescued her on Valentine’s Day. A coworker fixated on her and when she kept turning him down, he attempted to…force…the issue.” With a gun in the middle of her workplace, Greg added to himself.

“But…isn’t that against policy?” Lance questioned, confusion glimmering and his head cocking to the side.

“Yes, _mio nipote_ , it is, but that’s not a policy Jules agrees with.” Best to leave it at that. “Marina did come by the barn a number of times, trying to get my attention, so I made her a deal.”

“A deal?” Alanna pulled a lock of hair around, nibbling on it as she listened.

The Sergeant nodded. “In six months, if she’s still interested, I agreed to _one_ date – _after_ she met you two.” Running one hand over his head and through his hair, Parker mused, “What I _suspect_ is that in _this_ timeline, Jules didn’t try to talk me into anything because I have _you two_.”

“You’re not alone,” Alanna whispered.

Shrugging, Greg concluded, “Unfortunately, as far as my team – and probably Marina – is concerned, I took Jules’ advice and started dating her.”

“So,” Lance summed up, “Uncle Wordy’s missing, no one knows us from Adam, and you have a girlfriend who has _no_ idea you’ve got two kids living with you.”

“Pretty much,” Parker admitted.

As if on cue, they heard a knock at the door.

* * * * *

Greg shucked his sunglasses – he had an inkling that if Marina realized just how bad he was still feeling, she’d _never_ go away – and headed for the door, plastering his warmest negotiator smile in place. At the door, he hesitated, fortifying himself, and pulled the door open. Outside, a tall blonde woman with gray eyes beamed at him from behind a stack of Tupperware containers. She was a beautiful woman, Parker silently acknowledged, with straight hair in the mid-range of blonde that fell just past her shoulders and a wide mouth that sported a shade of light pink lipstick. Aside from the lipstick, she wasn’t using makeup, letting her natural warm skin tone, pert nose, and slim eyebrows stand on their own.

“Hello, Marina.”

“Greg.” She held the stack out. “Ed called me, told me you were sick yesterday.”

“That I was,” the negotiator agreed ruefully. “Not back to a hundred percent yet, but I’m much better today.” He shifted uneasily. “Look, I appreciate the visit, but…”

“Not my best timing?” Marina finished, gray twinkling at him. “Greg, I don’t mind if we don’t talk much, but I’ve _seen_ your ‘fridge; you could use a few home cooked meals.”

Both brows rose before he could stop them – while he’d certainly existed on frozen meals _before_ the kids arrived, he _currently_ had a refrigerator filled to the brim with leftovers, thank you very mu… Oh. Shizzle. Searching for something to say, Greg cast about and spotted a bottle by Marina’s left leg – she’d set it down to knock on the door. Glass, green and… It appeared to be a _wine_ bottle.

Following his gaze, Marina’s smile turned a smidge sheepish. “Sparkling grape juice,” she explained. “Just a little zip to it, Greg; no alcohol.”

Parker’s shoulders tightened; she _knew_ his history and she’d _still_ brought something to his _home_ that _looked_ like wine? From the way gray eyes flickered, she’d caught his unhappiness. “Marina, really,” he nodded to the meal, “I appreciate it, but all I’m doing tonight is eating dinner and going to bed.”

She considered him, then offered the plastic containers. “You can get these back to me, Greg.”

“Are you sure?” The Sergeant did feel a bit guilty…she’d gone to the effort of making them dinner and here he was shooing her away. It wasn’t _Marina’s_ fault she didn’t remember their original deal.

“I’m sure,” Marina reassured him. “This way you don’t have to cook or throw something in the microwave.”

His smile turned genuine as he took the stack. “Thank you, Marina. I’ll make sure I wash these before I get them back to you.”

One finger waggled at him. “Not tonight, Greg. You eat and go right to bed.” Marina picked up the bottle of sparkling grape juice. “Get better soon.”

“Copy,” Parker agreed before he shouldered his door closed. Glancing towards the kitchen, he tilted his head; Alanna materialized at his side and accepted the warm containers, carting them back to the kitchen without a word, both of them wary of making too much sound before Marina was gone.

Returning his attention to the door, Greg closed his eyes and focused on _listening_. Marina’s footsteps trailed away after a disappointed sigh, heading towards the elevators. The Sergeant waited, not moving a muscle as the elevator doors dinged open, then swished closed. Hazel opened again and Parker tugged his front door open once more, searching the hallway.

Claire Wordsworth darted in, grabbing him around the waist and clinging to him as she cried.

* * * * *

He didn’t attempt to detach the frightened girl, simply wrapped her in a hug and waited for the crying to stop. Lance pushed the door closed and locked it; for Claire to come _alone_ meant something was very wrong. He made to ghost out of sight again, but Claire turned her head, brown eyes widening in shock.

The three Parker-Calvins cringed as Claire looked up at her father’s boss. “You remember,” she whispered, pure relief radiating from her small frame.

Hazel widened. “So do you,” Greg breathed. But how? Claire didn’t have Wild Magic.

“Claire?” All eyes swung to Lance. “Did you get sick yesterday?”

“Uh-huh,” Claire confirmed. “So did Lilly and Ally. Mommy didn’t make us go to school.” She looked down and sniffled. “Daddy’s taking his medicine again and he has a beard and Mommy’s worried and Emmy’s in my room and she won’t come out.”

The Sergeant blinked, parsing the statement down to its basics. Understanding broke through and he cringed, detaching Claire enough to crouch down. “Claire…right now your Mom and Dad don’t remember about his bracelet. They don’t know he doesn’t need the meds anymore.”

“Why?” Plaintive, with a child’s trust that Greg could make it all _better_.

He hated to disappoint her, but facts were facts. “Claire, when you and your sisters got sick, that was because a very bad wizard cast a spell to make everyone forget about Lance and Alanna. And because no one remembers them, they don’t remember that your Dad’s Parkinson’s is under control. They don’t even remember that he never had to leave my team.”

“But _you_ remember,” Claire pointed out.

Greg nodded. “I do,” he agreed, still quiet. “I remember because I’m a Wild Mage Squib-born.” Hesitating, he glanced up at his _nipotes_ , question clear, but unspoken.

Alanna frowned thoughtfully. “Old Magic,” she murmured. “It has to be. Anyone with Old Magic or Wild Magic is immune to this thing.” The redhead’s frown deepened. “Claire, are you still going to…”

Claire nodded. “Uh-huh. But today, no one was talking about Shiloh.”

“Well, that’s not good,” Lance mused. “Means even wizards are being affected by this.”

“An Old Religion spell?” Parker queried. “Then how’d _we_ escape it?”

“Well, Wild Magic doesn’t take well to any spells that manipulate like this, but Claire…” The teenager hummed as he considered the dilemma. “Maybe it’s too big?” he offered. “Too large an area to cover? Can’t just have it here in Toronto, you’d have to affect England, too.”

“I have an idea,” Alanna offered. “Lance, what if we call Mindy? She helped us with the Netherworld.”

“And Uncle Wordy’s bracelet,” Lance agreed. “Claire? Just don’t jump.”

“Okay.”

The brunette looked on in bemusement as Lance called the house-elf. Mindy popped in, regarded the four humans, then squeaked and _popped_ between her charges and the two unknowns.

“Mindy, stop,” Lance ordered firmly. “They’re friends.”

Confused, the house-elf turned back to her master, cringing at his stern expression. “Mindy is being sorry, Master; Mindy did not know.” Twisting her ears, Mindy added, “Mindy will iron her ears, Master.”

“You will _not_ ,” Lance hissed, gryphon fury blazing an instant.

Mindy blinked, clearly astonished by the turn of events. “Master…does not want to punish Mindy?”

The teen knelt, looking the small creature in the eye. “Never,” he promised. “If I’m mad at you, I’ll just make you take a day off.”

Greg swallowed a chortle as Mindy wailed dismay – apparently, being forced to _not_ work was an actual punishment for a house-elf.

His nephew flashed him a grin. “Mindy, I don’t know what you remember, but it’s not real,” he informed the elf. “ ‘Lanna and I have been in Toronto since Mom and Dad died.”

Mindy considered, still idly twisting one ear. “Mindy is knowing bad spell is being on Mindy,” she admitted after a minute. “But Mindy was not knowing what bad spell is being for.”

“You knew about the spell?” Greg blurted.

The house-elf cringed as she gazed up at him. “Yes, Master.”

It was Greg’s turn to blanch; Claire’s eyes went wide. “Uncle Greg, chill,” Lance intervened. “It’s just ‘cause you’re our Regent.”

That…didn’t make the negotiator _feel_ any better. Focusing on the trembling elf, he asked, “You knew you were being affected?”

Mindy’s ears flopped as she nodded. “Mindy is knowing, Master, but Mindy is not being able to break bad spell.”

“Are there other magical races who would realize what’s going on?” Parker asked hopefully.

The house-elf nodded again. “Goblins is knowing,” she replied. “Goblins’ magic is not liking bad spell.”

“Not liking as in…immune to it?” Alanna asked, hope blazing in violet eyes.

“Yes, Mistress,” Mindy confirmed. “Mindy is knowing bad spell is needing vessel.”

“What’s a vessel?” Claire asked.

“Living or not?” Alanna asked before Mindy could respond.

Elf ears twitched unhappily. “Spell is needing both, Mistress. Living vessel must have other on.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “If living vessel is dying…”

“So does the spell,” Lance finished quietly.

“Yes, Master.”

“Can we end the spell without the vessel dying?” Greg questioned, his gaze on the house-elf direct.

“Mindy is thinking so, Master, but Young Master and Young Mistress should not be trying.”

“We’re the object of the spell,” Alanna put in. “I mean, that might not matter, but…” She trailed off, expression miserable.

“Mindy is thinking Old One will help,” the house-elf offered.

“Merlin,” Lance translated, smirking at his uncle’s look of comprehension. The teenager cocked his head to the side, thoughtful. “Mindy, could you find this vessel?”

“Mindy can try, Master.”

Greg ran through their options himself, thinking hard. “Mindy?” The house-elf glanced up expectantly. “Can you take a letter to the goblins and ask them to send it to Merlin?”

“Mindy can do, Master.”

The Sergeant nodded to himself and released Claire. “Okay, I’ll go write that right now.”

His nephew picked up as Greg headed for the kitchen, determined not to waste another _instant_. “After you take the letter to Gringotts, start searching for this vessel, Mindy. Get the other Calvin elves to help you. I’m betting it’s here in Toronto. Find it and come back to us or Merlin, but don’t go near Uncle Greg if he’s at work.”

“Mindy understands, Master.”

A few minutes later, the house-elf was on her way, leaving the four humans behind. Greg arched a brow at his _nipotes_. “Vessel?”

“Living…well, that’s obvious,” Lance replied, wilting at the thought. “But really, a vessel is anything that can store magic or power a spell. Some spells can work with inanimate vessels – most of them actually, but some are so dark or so powerful that they need a living vessel. If this one needs both…”

“It’s really dark _and_ really powerful,” Alanna concluded. “But we already knew that.”

“We did?” That was news to Greg.

“A spell that messes with peoples’ memories like this? Definitely Dark Magic,” Lance declared, expression fierce.

Greg sighed, understanding even if he didn’t like it. “So what do we do now?”

Resignation gazed back at him and Lance’s response was utterly flat. “We wait.”

“We wait?” Claire asked, her words utterly heartbroken. Her ‘uncle’ understood…he was just as disappointed.

* * * * *

Sighing to himself, Greg hit the ‘call’ button and lifted the phone, listening to the other end ring. Patience…usually he had that in spades, but this spell…this _curse_ …he wanted it _gone_ , the sooner the better. Regardless, there was going to be an utter _mess_ demanding weeks of clean-up and unfortunately more than a few _Obliviations_. He hated the thought, but better that than to let the Statute of Secrecy fall in the wake of an attack on both worlds.

“Hello?”

“Shelley?”

Disappointment rang. “Greg. I thought you were Kevin.”

In spite of the situation, a playful grin worked its way onto Parker’s mouth. “Well, Shelley, that thing you’re looking for…” He turned, letting the moment hang. “…I think I found her for you.”

“Claire’s with you?” Sheer relief and astonishment etched itself in every word.

“She is,” Greg confirmed. “I think she wanted a different perspective on some problems she’s been noticing.”

“And she couldn’t ask me or her father?” Shelley’s voice was tart with worry and disapproval.

“Apparently not,” the negotiator replied. “I gave her my cell number so she doesn’t feel like she has to sneak out next time she wants to talk to me.”

Shelley huffed, not entirely appeased. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, Greg.”

“No rush,” Greg reassured her. “I don’t mind watching her for a bit.”

“Well, she and I have a little chat we need to have. See you in a few, Greg.” Shelley hung up and Parker eyed the phone, bemused. Was it just him or had Shelley been much more formal and on edge than he was used to?

* * * * *

Lance rummaged through his room, searching for his latest project. It wasn’t perfect, wasn’t even _close_ to being done, and it was more of an experiment than anything else, but desperate times, desperate measures. He finally searched through his Shiloh Academy bag and found it there, grinning as he pulled the golden bracelet out.

What had started out as a failed prototype for their healing bracelet project was morphing into a power armlet. Five crystals were embedded in the armlet, at equal distances apart. When he was done, the crystals would be fueled by the five magical elements – Air, Fire, Life, Water, and Earth – creating a device capable of recharging itself and any magical device within its range. Trouble was, he couldn’t, for the _life_ of him, get the Life crystal working. And without all five crystals working, the armlet could _store_ power and recharge other magical devices, but it could not charge _itself_.

So he’d moved back to working on making the programming for the mithril healing bracelet more efficient. The teenager had a few ideas that he wanted to test, but now he couldn’t. Which brought him back to his experiment. A stop-gap measure for sure, but if it worked?

That was all that mattered.

* * * * *

Greg spied his nephew handing a bracelet to Claire, his explanation too quiet for Parker to hear – particularly since the Sergeant was listening for Shelley’s arrival. The elevator dinged and he made a motion, shooing his _nipotes_ out of sight. Alanna ghosted behind him, resting one hand on his back – how she knew he needed the reminder that the last four years _hadn’t_ been a dream, he didn’t know, but gratitude shone in hazel as he glanced back at her.

The knock straightened him, a pointer alerting on a familiar sound. It _couldn’t_ be… Parker pulled his door open and delight surged from his wild side. “Wordy.”

“Hey, Sarge…uh, Boss…uh…”

He swallowed his laughter. “How you been, Wordy?”

A grin flashed. “Better this week than I’ve been in awhile,” Wordy replied. Probably true as far as his constable was concerned, though Greg knew better. The Sergeant flicked his gaze downwards, wincing internally at the shimmer of black. But why black? Alanna had charged the bracelet Sunday night, mischief dancing in her eyes and Wordy laughing at the old Bob Newhart routines Lance had dug up from who knew where.

Parker turned his head, an idea sparking to life. “Claire!” he called, acting as if she was further into the apartment than she really was. The young girl caught on at once and vanished, his nephew guiding her with a wry smirk of his own. Glancing back, Greg offered, “Want to come in, Wordy?”

“Nah, I’d better not, Sar…uh, Greg. Shelley’s expecting us home.”

“Copy.” Disappointing, but this could still work… One hand snaked out as Parker twisted around again, calling for Claire. Two fingers touched silver metal and Greg reached for his magic, only to freeze as violet power whispered around him, flowing from Alanna’s hand on his shoulder, through his chest and arm, down into the bracelet he was touching. Greg counted off the seconds, praying Claire wouldn’t come too soon or too late – they had to time this just _right_ to keep Wordy from getting suspicious.

“Daddy,” Claire cried, swooping past him and into Wordy’s arms; Parker lost his tentative grasp on the bracelet for an instant before Claire nudged her father’s left wrist close again. Brown eyes fixed on the runes and even as the little girl snuggled into Wordy’s embrace, she held her position long enough for Alanna to finish. “Uncle Greg was sick yesterday, too.”

“He was?” Wordy reared back in exaggerated shock, though his boss caught the concerned once-over.

“ _Mio nipotes_ were down with the same thing,” Greg remarked, right before kicking himself. Wordy wouldn’t know what on Earth he was talking about.

“Your niece and nephew?” Concern morphed into worry. “Hope it wasn’t as bad as our girls. Migraines all day and Ally was throwing up.”

Parker stilled, shoving his shock as far down as he could manage. Wordy…remembered…? “No, no throwing up from them,” he managed, neglecting to mention his own woes.

“Daddy, ‘Lanna helped me finish my project,” Claire chirped, holding up the bracelet she’d gotten from his nephew. “Will you wear it?”

“Sure I will, sweetheart.”

Greg’s jaw quirked up in a smirk, appreciating his nephew’s tactics. Claire could give half the rookie negotiators at the Academy a run for their money – and her father was _no_ match for her. Satisfaction burned as Parker watched Claire fasten the armlet just above the mithril healing bracelet, beaming and snuggling close again. Four of the five crystals lit up, magic ghosting over the golden surface and down into the mithril, bolstering the emerald runes.

“Thanks for looking after her, Sarge, but we’d better get going.”

“Copy that, Wordy. See you soon.”

“Sure thing,” Wordy agreed. “Say ‘hi’ to your _nipotes_ for me.”

Greg smiled broadly as his constable left. “Oh, I will,” he murmured.

_We might just pull this off after all…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is enjoying the story thus far and Happy New Year's Eve! Yes, the dawn of 2020 is upon us, whether we like it or not. As previously announced, tomorrow, on the first day of _Anno Domini_ 2020, I will be posting "Crafting the Solution", the long awaited (for some of you) story of how Wordy's mithril healing bracelet was created.
> 
> Happy New Year's Eve, ya'll! Catch you _next_ year!


	4. Nightmares of Reality

Wordy shepherded his daughter down to his car, a large part of him wishing, fiercely, that he was back on Team One. Shelley wasn’t happy with their daughter, but Wordy understood why Claire had gone to his former boss – Sarge was easy to talk to and never talked down to anyone. Perfect for a young witch still uncertain about her new world. Before this week, Claire had been drifting away from her family, but now she and her sisters were closer than ever, though all three of them were still recovering from their Monday illness.

“Sarge give you good advice, kiddo?”

Brown eyes lifted and Claire nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Anything you want to talk to _me_ about?”

His daughter considered, biting her lip uncertainly.

Wordy paused mid-step, turning and crouching in one smooth motion. “Claire? Did you go to Sarge about me and your Mom?”

Claire looked down and one small hand snuck out to touch his silver mood bracelet. “Yes.”

“Why?”

His oldest daughter sniffled. “You won’t believe me.”

“Hey,” Wordy countered, reaching out and tipping his little girl’s chin up. “I will _always_ believe you, pumpkin. Pinky swear.”

She didn’t smile as he’d intended; instead her eyes were pools of hope and fear. The detective stiffened – what had put _fear_ in Claire’s eyes?

“Talk to me,” Wordy coaxed, locking his fledgling anger away. “Come on, sweetheart, talk to me.”

But Claire shook her head and refused to say another word all the way home. Frustrated, Wordy opted not to intercede on his daughter’s behalf when Shelley took her aside for a stern mother-daughter talk.

* * * * *

_“Wordy, get that veela out of there,” Ed snapped over the comm._

_Panting, the constable peered around the corner. “Subject’s too close to risk it, Ed.”_

_“Giles, think you can scare the guy with your Patronus?” Sam asked._

_A grin crept over Wordy’s jaw. “Send it from right above me,” he requested._

_“Copy,” their Auror liaison agreed. “Two minutes.”_

* * * * *

Wordy gasped as he snapped awake all at once, as if someone had just screamed in his ear. Blood pounded, adrenaline surging, his whole body reacting as if he really _had_ been in the middle of a hot call, not sleeping in his bed. Rolling over, the Guns ‘n’ Gangs detective struggled to control his breathing and calm down. Fixing his gaze on the opposite wall, Wordy recited his reasons for leaving Team One again, ignoring the fierce ache in his chest and longing for _his_ team. It took several minutes, but he managed to drift off again…

* * * * *

_Gunshots rang out all around him as he dodged slavering jaws and fired at the werewolf in front of him. The full moon hung in the sky behind him, its light more menacing than anything else. Grim, the constable stepped over the dead werewolf and started jogging for the trucks, veering left when he heard Spike yell for help._

_Three werewolves had cornered the bomb tech, but they were unprepared for the impromptu pincer move; all of them were caught in the crossfire of silver bullets before the two constables turned and raced for the trucks. Halfway there, they nearly ran into Sam; the trio adjusted to cover each other as they bolted for safety – no point in sticking around if their team leader had rescued their missing teammates._

_As they broke free from the field, the Sarge jogging in from another direction, a werewolf caught up, leaping for Sam’s throat._

* * * * *

Wordy hit the floor as he attempted to twist around, desperate to save Sam. Moonlight shone in the bedroom windows, earning a cringe as the light struck his eyes; automatically, he shielded himself with one arm. Shelley murmured to herself and turned over, oblivious to her husband’s distress as he sat hunched over on the floor, hands clenching and unclenching as he strained to calm down again.

Bad enough that Sarge’s offhand mention of his ‘nipotes’ had caused a flash of…something. Red and brown hair, two pairs of eyes regarding him with implicit trust…family that was _more_ than just blood. Bad enough that Claire’s plaintive claim that he wouldn’t believe her had actually drawn a sense of agreement from somewhere deep inside him. But now he was having dreams of his _team_ in Claire’s world?

The onetime Team One constable snorted at the thought – no _way_ would _wizards_ let mere _Muggles_ work in law enforcement, no _way_ would his former team _thrive_ with hot calls that were so outlandish and full of magic. Besides, _he_ only knew about magic because his daughter was a Muggleborn witch…how on _Earth_ would his teammates…former teammates…know about magic?

Sighing, Wordy pushed himself up and carefully slithered back under the covers. He had work in the morning and needed every scrap of sleep he could get.

* * * * *

_“I’m sorry I didn’t have your back that night.”_

_His smile felt fake, his tone forced. “It’s okay, Sarge.”_

_Sarge shook his head, guilt and regret shimmering in hazel depths. “No, it’s not okay, Wordy. You trust me to have your back and that night, I screwed up.”_

* * * * *

_“Who do you think came up with Potter’s little speech right before you took that oath thing? I’ll even give you a little hint: it was the same guy I had to practically bash over the head ‘cause he was halfway to Timbuktu on a guilt trip before I caught him.” Ed stepped forward, right into his space and he fought the urge to back up at the outrage in his best friend’s eyes. “So, tell me, Wordy; would it have felt better if we’d gotten you back only to have Sarge turn in his badge ‘cause he let you down?”_

_No, Sarge wouldn’t do that…would he? He_ couldn’t _, he wouldn’t_ let _him – Sarge_ belonged _on Team One, it wouldn’t be right without him._

* * * * *

Panic screamed through him, right along with a searing headache as the dreams fought with _reality_. He _wasn’t_ on Team One any more, Sarge had _never_ come close to resigning just because of something he’d supposed let him down about. Slowly, the headache faded as reality reasserted itself. Right beside his head, the alarm went off and he smacked it, exhaustion tugging at him.

Grimacing, Wordy pushed himself up out of bed and headed for the shower, making a face at how sweaty he felt. Every muscle quivered, as if he’d run a marathon in his sleep – and maybe he _had_. A marathon through a fantasy world where he was still on Team One…a Team One that knew about magic and accepted it as part of their daily lives. But that wasn’t reality and _never_ would be.

Cold water spilled down onto his back, cooling overheated muscles and easing the adrenaline crash. Yawning, the detective made a note to grab extra coffee – he was going to need it.

* * * * *

_“Wordy, I need you in place with the climbing gear,” Sarge ordered. “If the subject pushes that girl off the edge, you’ve_ got _to catch her.”_

_“Copy,” Wordy acknowledged, trading grim looks with Lou as they ran. “Can veela fly, Giles?”_

_“Don’t know,” the Auror admitted. “But quarter-veela certainly can’t.”_

_As the SRU Auror skidded into position, he and Lou setting up the climb as quickly as possible, Wordy wondered why so many of their calls lately seemed to involve wizards attacking veela._

“Wordsworth!”

Wordy jerked to attention, almost knocking his pencil off the desk. Detective Larson didn’t like him – rumor held he’d attempted to don the ‘cool pants’ himself several years back and hadn’t made the cut. Hence his grudge against the SRU in general and Wordy in particular.

“Yes, sir?” Wordy asked, shooting to his feet in a belated attempt to appear respectful.

“Where’s that file I asked for a week ago?”

“Right here, sir,” Wordy replied, digging through the stack of files and pulling it out. He forebode to point out that Larson had been out of the office ever since requesting the file, preventing Wordy from getting it to him.

The black man grunted, snatching the file and stalking away without another word. Wordy gazed after him, bitter regret pooling in his gut. Why had he left Team One again? He’d take Ed breaking into his locker a thousand times over detectives with an axe to grind against the SRU. Larson wasn’t even the worst offender – that dubious honor went to a guy who’d applied _twice_ for the SRU and been bounced both times. Frankly, Wordy was pretty sure whoever had done the guy’s psych eval had taken one look at how _obsessive_ Collins was and rejected him right then and there.

He missed his team – so fiercely it hurt. Why it was suddenly worse _this_ week than it had been in months, he wasn’t sure, but it was. Sighing, Wordy sat back down and took another swig of coffee, doing his best to bury longings, daydreams, and the growing sense that something was very, very wrong.

* * * * *

_“Since when is it open season on veela?” Ed snarked, pacing back and forth. “That’s the sixth hot call in a week!”_

_Giles grimaced, not bothering to contest the facts. “Since the Canadian Council of Wizards just passed a law making it illegal for veela to use their natural abilities in self-defense.”_

_“They did what?”_

_It wasn’t just the Sarge that was caught off guard, the rest of them whipped around, pinning Giles with incredulous glares. Onasi cringed. “That’s not how it’s phrased, but that’s what it amounts to,” he explained. “They fight back and they can get tossed in McKean for attempted murder and solicitation.”_

_“Both?” Sam asked. “What, the wizards wanna have their cake and eat it too?” Scorn rang, reminding the Squib-born’s teammates of his Squib Squad days._

_“I think it’s stupid, too,” Giles grumbled, throwing himself in a briefing room chair. “The international veela community’s getting involved and they’re threatening to go to the ICW over discrimination against their kin, so the law will probably get overturned, but in the meantime…” He spread his hands, expression helpless._

_“Open season on veela,” the Boss concluded. “Okay, let’s work up some drills on how to get these ladies away from subject wizards without Hail Mary maneuvers and team…” He paused until everyone was at attention. “Keep your phones on. We’re going to be on call until Team Three gets back from that competition in Montreal.”_

* * * * *

The constable…no, _detective_ , darn it…pushed himself up in bed, indignation flowing over what had happened _next_ … He faltered as reality intruded once more, reminding him that he was just dreaming. None of what he’d dreamt had _ever_ happened.

Miserable, he glanced down at the mood bracelet on his wrist, green lighting the designs on its surface. Strange. It had been black when he’d gone to bed. The other bracelet, Claire’s project, was glittering, the magic his daughter had twined with the metal evident in four of the crystals, each a different color. The final crystal was transparent, though he swore he saw it flicker an instant.

Something about the crystals soothed him – that and the exhaustion he’d been battling since Monday. Staring into their depths, he fell asleep.

* * * * *

_They couldn’t afford to negotiate. Not with the fate of the world at stake. Wordy braced himself behind their rough barricade, hoping,_ praying _, it would be enough. Greeting the dawn with one less teammate would_ not _be a victory in his book. The werewolves had started this, but the Narnian Knights were going to_ finish _it._

_The battle was a blur, broken only by Ed and the Sarge’s orders. A flash of green in Giles’ direction made the constable stiffen in outrage, but Roy saved his partner, yanking him down at the last second. And when it was over, when all the subjects were down and safely cuffed, Wordy let himself sag as the weight of what they’d had to do sank in._

_Some days, he really hated his job._

* * * * *

Dreams and reality mixed, both drifting around him, equally valid as his heart fought with his mind. By Friday morning, he was a virtual zombie, going through the motions and oblivious to the usual taunts from Larson and Collins. Exhaustion draped him, the mood bracelet flipping between green and black, and daydreams grew more powerful, pulling him into what _felt_ like flashbacks, but which he _knew_ couldn’t be.

His dreams – half nightmare and half paradise – refused to relent. Over and over they played out, forcing him into hot call after hot call, all of them magic-side with his team standing in the gap as proud cops _and_ Aurors. He always woke shaking, blood pumping and adrenaline leaving his body covered in sweat. Cold showers became his constant companions, cooling him off and bringing him back in line with reality.

He couldn’t live like this, but he had no idea how to make it stop. In desperation, on Friday night he took two sleeping pills.

* * * * *

_Gryphon, that was a_ gryphon _less than a meter away! Its wings were crippled, its eyes both impossibly familiar and inhumanly_ not _, and it was coming_ right at him _._

It’s a dream, _he screamed at himself, struggling to wake up, straining to get_ away _._

_It pounced, slamming him to the ground, his back erupting in molten lava; his scream echoed, but failed to wake him._

_He heard himself say something, but the words were mumbled, indistinct, as if his attempts to wake up were blurring the memories…no,_ dreams _, darn it!_

_The dream stilled, his gaze locked on those burning hazel eyes, pain licking from where razor-sharp talons dug into his arms._

_The images_ twisted _, immune to his battle to wake_ up _._

_He panted, a veela huddled behind him as he stood between her and the wizard who’d attacked her, demanding instant gratification of his most perverse fantasies. Ironic; this was his day_ off _and he knew for a fact that no one would answer his call – Sarge had ordered them to take the weekend off, rain, shine, or the end of the world._

_Shallow cuts on his forearms bled, their pain nothing compared to when he’d gotten the angled white scars now exposed for the world to see. The constable held his position, shifting to a combat-ready stance. “You want her, you’ll have to go through me,” he snapped at the subject._

_“It’s a_ veela _,” the wizard sneered. “It_ has _no rights.”_

_Two kids who’d grown up in the magical world, stripped of their humanity simply because of the magic they’d been_ born _with. Would this_ scut _say the same of_ them _? Wrong was wrong, no matter_ who _was involved. Gray narrowed, fire blazing. “_ She _has the right to live_ her _own life, without scum like_ you _treating_ her _like a sex toy!”_

_The curse flew at him, from near point-blank range. If he’d had his armor…but he didn’t. He was dead…until the woman behind him shoved him sideways and took the brunt of the curse herself. Helpless outrage howled as he rolled sideways and launched at the subject, a vicious uppercut taking the wizard down._

_He scrambled to the fallen woman’s side, pressing down on the wound, struggling to keep the blood inside her. In the background, he heard someone yell for the Aurors, but his focus remained on the woman, his hands steady until the Healers took over._

_When she was gone, whisked to the hospital clinging to life, he gave his statement to the on-scene Aurors, numb. It wasn’t until Junior Auror Nealen Queenscove quietly guided him away and told him that the veela would live that he managed to regain his mental balance and walk to Gringotts for the meeting he’d probably missed. He never found out anything more and his status as an Auror meant she would never find out who her rescuer had been._

Stop, please stop, _he begged, struggling futilely to escape the nightmare around him, but the images twisted once more, flashing and weaving through mind and soul._

“Kevin?”

_He saw his boss drain himself dry trying to save Roy Lane’s life, skin turning gray as he fought to hold off both Time and the Reaper._

Someone was shaking his shoulders. He felt it, but his mind was locked in slumber.

_Saw his team arrested for crimes they’d never committed – arrested by the same wizards they’d worked alongside and_ trusted _._

“Kevin, wake up.”

_Faced down a monster who’d tried to_ enslave _his team – to the same man he wanted as his new puppet. Himself._

Harder shakes. “Kevin!”

_Looked into Ed’s blissfully blank eyes, knowing,_ knowing _, a man who’d_ stolen _his face was responsible. Had turned his_ best friend _into a mind-controlled zombie._

“Come on, honey, wake up.”

_Mocking laughter rang, its owner unseen. “Do you see, little knight?” she taunted. “Do you understand?” The orb in her hand burned into him, dragging him down into its depths._

“Please, Kevin, wake up.”

_A transparent crystal glowed, green streaking through it, but never filling it._

“Kevin!” A shove, hard and impressive, that tipped him halfway off the bed.

_A blond man, dead for centuries, gasped for breath on the shore of a lake, a gleaming, perfect silver and gold blade beside him. Take me up, its runes bade._

“Kevin, wake up!”

Gray eyes snapped open as he fell to the floor, slamming down on his hands, almost face-planting.

Awake…he was _awake_.

* * * * *

Cold water sluiced down his head and hunched shoulders, flowing over his back, the shivers wracking his frame only half from the freezing liquid. He stared mindlessly at the tile, gasping and struggling to realign his thinking. They were just _dreams_ …they’d never happened… But he couldn’t convince himself any more. The _dreams_ felt more real than anything in his life. More solid, more tangible – they fit with his _soul_. But they’d never happened.

Around his left wrist, Claire’s two bracelets jangled against each other, the mood bracelet a sullen black – a perfect counterpart for the depression welling up inside. He’d _never_ take a sleeping pill again, not as long as he lived, but that left him with few options. He needed sleep, but the _dreams_ …

Against his will, his eyes drifted shut, images flashing in the darkness, but he shook himself violently an instant later. No, no sleep. No more dreams. Wordy pushed against the wall; he couldn’t hide in the shower forever. Head down, he slunk out, snagging his towel and wrapping it around himself. One side slipped as he turned and he caught a glimpse of his back in the mirror; shock penetrated the numbness. Scars. Thin white lines, but still unmistakably scars. Letters, carved into his back.

Trembling, Wordy adjusted the towel, forcing himself to examine every last bit of evidence. A glance down revealed three more – a ragged line across his chest and two angled scars that looked like a giant bird had wrapped its talons around his arms.

“No, not real,” he mumbled, shaking his head desperately. “Not real; they’re just dreams.”

They had to be. They _had_ to be.


	5. Of Treasure Hunts and Skate Park Standoffs

On Monday morning, almost exactly a week after his world had gone topsy-turvy, Greg Parker awkwardly juggled two cardboard trays of coffee as he headed for his car. First Monday of the month and his turn to buy, but really, truly, the Sergeant had too much on his plate to spare much attention for either the coffee or the letter he’d gotten over the weekend. He’d pull Jules aside and congratulate her, but beyond that, his pride at his constable’s accomplishment had taken a backseat to the mess they were all in – but only _he_ knew about.

One tray tipped as he tried to set it on his car roof; his yelp cut off when the tray jerked upright – in midair; not a drop of liquid spilled. A timid squeak revealed his helper. Greg set the other tray on the roof and retrieved the floating tray, giving the little house-elf a smile as she crept closer, avoiding the other Monday morning coffee patrons.

“Good morning, Mindy.”

Elf ears perked up. “Mindy is wishing Master good morning, too.”

Foregoing the losing battle, Parker asked, “Any luck?”

To his surprise, she nodded. “Mindy is thinking wes is finding vessel soon. It is being near water.”

Near water. That still left quite a bit of ground to cover, but unfortunately, waiting was the name of the game. “So another day or two?” Not a hint of the disappointment he felt made it to his voice.

Another enthusiastic head bob. “Old One is telling Mindy to tell Master that Old One is having pretty talking thing goblins gave.”

A week of speaking with house-elves had given the negotiator a crash course in deciphering house-elf grammar, so Greg was reasonably confident that Mindy had just informed him Merlin now possessed a magical smartphone. “Did Merlin give you a number to give me?”

Mindy beamed to be so trusted and obediently reeled it off as Parker scribbled on a paper scrap, making a note to put the number in his own phone ASAP. Just as he finished writing, the phone rang, prompting a raised finger as he snapped the device up to his ear. “Parker.” He listened a moment, then replied, “Yeah, I’m on my way.”

Hanging up, he glanced down at Mindy. “Okay, I got to go. Report to Merlin as soon as you find this thing, you copy?”

The house-elf bounced – she too had grown used to dealing with a ‘Muggle’ Master. “Mindy copies, Master.” Before she popped away, she snapped her fingers and the two coffee trays disappeared, reappearing safely inside the car.

* * * * *

Sirens wailed and the trucks flew down the highway as Spike played the 911 call over the comm, bringing the rest of his team up to speed on what little they had so far. A young girl was talking to a dispatcher. “This isn’t just any bag. It’s a black courier bag with no ID.”

Greg frowned as acute hearing picked up the sounds of someone racing towards the phone. A distant male voice called, “Hey.”

“And inside…”

“Bag, now,” the male demanded; the Sergeant’s eyes narrowed at the caller’s audible startle.

“Oh, my gawd, he’s got a gun. Oh, my gawd.”

Someone – almost certainly the subject – snatched the phone away and hung up.

Frustration spiraled through the negotiator. _Ordinarily_ , he would’ve offered up what his own hyper-sensitive hearing had caught, but _now_ … His team didn’t remember – they’d ask questions he didn’t have answers to; not answers they’d _believe_ at any rate. For a simple 911 call, it wasn’t likely to matter in the long run, but still. It rankled and it wasn’t right, wasn’t safe.

“And that’s it,” Spike concluded.

“Okay, any idea where in the park?” Eddie asked.

“I’m sending out a map right now.”

Greg let himself wince – he knew where they were going and ‘park’ did _not_ help them. As if his thought had been a signal, Sam whistled. “That’s a big park.”

“Three acres of urban wilderness,” the bomb tech agreed. “I’ll see if I can narrow it down.”

“We have a name?” Parker asked. If they could find the girl – or her phone, that would give them a place to start.

“The cell phone belongs to Hana Stampf,” Jules reported.

“You make a call?”

“No answer.”

The Sergeant kept his tone calm, though he traded an intent glance with his team leader. “Robbery.”

Lou broke into the conversation. “Spike, found a clean part of the call.”

“Great work, buddy,” Spike replied, glee audible. “Okay, enhancing the background and making a loop. Guys? Guesses?”

Gryphon hearing focused in on the rolling and clicking sounds, the periodic hitches drawing a frown. They overlapped, but as the audio replayed, Parker did his best to follow one set of rolling, attempting to ‘isolate’ it from the overlapping rolls.

“Shopping cart?” Lou offered.

“Parking lot?” Sam followed up.

“Tricks?” Greg suggested. “They keep…” What was the phrase his nephew used? “…catching the air.”

“All right, _Boss_ ,” Spike cheered. “It’s skateboards…bet you caught that guy who’s not quite making his trick.”

Rousseau made his entrance onto the call’s transcript with a quiet chuckle.

He was quickly overshadowed by Sam’s report. “There’s a skateboard park off Leslie.”

“Spike, Raf, Lou, come in through the back off Woodbine,” Ed ordered.

“Talk to witnesses and find the girl,” Parker tacked on. “And hope we’re not too late.”

* * * * *

Finding the subject was almost anti-climatic; the genius was standing right at the edge of the skate park, talking to a young man in a black hoodie. As his team closed in, Greg caught hoodie’s betrayed, “You called the cops?” As if the subject had broken some rule in the deadly game they were playing.

The subject, tall with crew-cut brown hair, replied in a low, intense voice. “Go.” And Parker knew, _knew_ , things were about to go sideways. Hoodie ran as the subject turned, pulling a gun and firing it twice into the air. “No one moves.”

Calm, unhurried, as if the man was used to pulling guns on cops in the middle of skate parks. An odd determination gleamed, that of someone committed to a course of action, come what may. The negotiator’s instincts prickled, but his usual sixth sense was more than a bit battered after a week of sensing his team 24/7.

“Is that gunfire?” Spike demanded.

“Backup on the way.” Rousseau.

“Negative,” Ed ordered. “Stay with the runner.”

“Copy,” Lou agreed, his response overlapping with his best friend’s, “On him.”

The rest of Team One spread out, two pairs on angles with each other and the subject; Lane and Braddock taking one side while Parker and Callaghan took the other. “Sir, I need you to put the gun on the ground,” Greg ordered, more cop than negotiator. His weapon was still drawn and aimed; if the subject brought his gun back up, it was debatable as to whether Ed or his boss would shoot first.

“I need you to stop where you are.”

_Need?_ One mental eyebrow hiked; he was used to _being_ the negotiator, not the negotiated. Scanning the subject from head to toe, the Sergeant observed. Semi-automatic handgun, pointed downwards in a non-threatening position. The two shots, fired into the air, had been more to _demand_ attention than anything else, forcing most of Team One to let the other subject run. Professional attire, but not a business suit – no buttons on the jacket or a tie around his neck, though the pale blue shirt’s collar was upright and starched. Expensive shoes, purchased for comfort as much as style. Well groomed, well educated – why would a _negotiator_ choose this course of action?

“We can do that,” Greg agreed, keeping his eyes locked on the subject and his hearing ‘up’ for any clues the man might inadvertently drop. “I just need to know if the girl’s okay.”

“What girl?” Bland, unconcerned.

Hazel narrowed a hair. “The girl you took that bag from. She sounded pretty scared on the phone.”

A flash of understanding, then the subject’s eyes hardened. His tone never changed. “That’s what happens when you get in over your head.”

Greg swatted his indignant wild side down, his own expression never twitching. “Let’s not get any deeper. Where is she?”

“No idea.”

The negotiator forced his gun down, stifling the gryphon’s many suggestions for how to _deal_ with a Not-Pride human who harmed _fledglings_. Sliding it in his holster, he announced, “Okay, I’m gonna put my gun away, lower the temperature a little bit. Mind telling me your name?”

“Connect, respect, protect, right?”

_What?_ “That’s right.”

“Yeah, SRU.” Scorn rang. “You guys got all the answers. But today we’re playing it my way.”

They most certainly were _not_. Gryphon instincts bristled at the thought, his wild side now onboard with whatever he wanted, even if it _was_ …negotiating.

Ed’s murmur broke into his plotting. “Greg, I’m not reading drugs on this.”

“Suit like that,” Sam agreed, “You get someone else to do your drops.”

Point. So why _was_ their subject doing the drop all by his lonesome? The reason, Parker sensed, was important, but not immediately so. “He knows the protocol.”

“Maybe he’s a cop,” Jules offered.

“With that gun, I’m thinking military,” their ex-Special Forces constable argued.

“Knows what he’s doing,” Lane said. “He’s not pointing the weapon at us.”

Greg raised his voice, addressing the subject, probing, prodding. “Wanna tell us what your way looks like?”

“Not yet.” Ah. Back to the calm unconcern, though their man had just checked his watch.

“We waiting for something?”

Glancing up from his watch – and really, who checked the time in the middle of an armed standoff? – the subject snapped, “We’re waiting because I said so.”

Deep inside, the gryphon snarled its displeasure, right in time with his team leader’s hissed, “Boss, I don’t like him calling the shots here.”

Neither did Greg. “Ideas?”

“Let’s swap out, do less lethal.”

“All right, go for it,” Parker ordered. Keeping one eye on their subject and the other on Eddie, the negotiator added, “I think this guy’s playing us anyway. I’ll give it one more shot.” Shifting forward, senses alert for the _slightest_ disturbance, Greg called, “You know what, sir? No one’s in a rush here, sir, but I gotta tell you, standing around in the middle of a park, waving a gun, that sets a bad example.”

The subject laughed, sneer obvious; gryphon fury rose, held in check by the Sergeant’s iron will.

“And I’m guessing that you’re not gonna use it, so it’s time to put it on the ground.” Greg judged the distance, wondering, for an instant, what it would be like if he _could_ shift on his own, pouncing on his target in one leap to end the stand-off in a threatening flash of talons and fangs.

“Not yet.” Cocky, arrogant, so very assured that _he_ was in control.

“I’m afraid so, sir.” Negotiating even as his darker side seethed and longed to give the order. “I’m gonna give the signal, you’re gonna get hit with rubber bullets.”

Mockery rang. “Ooh,” the subject jeered, “They sting.”

_Why you little…_ “They do,” Greg solemnly agreed.

For several seconds more, the stand-off hung, neither side backing down or advancing. The subject checked his watch once more and glanced around, a sense of satisfaction radiating. “Okay,” he announced, ejecting his magazine and racking the slide once to eject the round inside.

Ed moved in, Sam right behind, snapping, “Hands up behind your head,” as the now tame subject knelt. Parker strode to the side, his focus still on the other man. Too easy. Something was wrong. What had the subject been stalling for?

Over the comm, Rousseau’s frustration was evident. “Man, you gotta be kidding me.”

Lou interjected with a quick, “Southwest end of the park, guys.”

“Suspect’s on wheels,” Rousseau added, “We could use a hand here.”

“We’re on it,” Ed replied, he and Sam racing for the trucks as Jules and Greg secured their prisoner.

Spike arrived, answering his boss’s silent question as to why only Rousseau and Lewis had reported in. “I know why our guy was so interested in making tracks,” the bomb tech announced. He turned a black courier bag – no, _the_ black courier bag – towards his teammates, flap open. “Quick look, about a quarter of a million dollars.”

Parker kept his voice nonchalant as he turned towards their suddenly not-so-cocky subject. “Robbery, resisting arrest. Any other charges you wanna tell me we can add?”

“You guys intercepted the bag.”

Obviously. “Yeah, we did,” Greg confirmed, a cheerful lilt to his words. _So there, punk._

“Then you just killed my client.”

Yep, too easy. Much too easy to be a Team One call…because there was the other shoe, right on schedule. Greg hiked an inquiring brow at their subject, wishing he was more surprised.

* * * * *

Rousseau’s – Raf’s – disappointment and frustration over losing their second subject was plain, but unnecessary. The subject had stolen a bike and used it to outdistance both Raf and Lou, escaping into the surrounding neighborhood and slipping the SRU’s net.

Greg nodded to himself as Ed reassured their ‘rookie’, backing his team leader up. “It’s all right, the day’s not over. Come on back.”

Their first subject, who Parker was escorting towards a handy patrol car, asked, “That guy get away?”

As they walked, the Sergeant countered, “Who is he?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

Incredulity shone and Parker pulled the other to a halt, turning him so they could speak face-to-face. “What? You deliver a bag full of money to a stranger, you pull a gun so he gets away, and you don’t seem interested in helping us out.” Whatever their first subject’s plans were, helping Team One was _not_ one of them. Which actually put the man’s client in _more_ danger, not less; his gryphon side hummed agreement on that point.

“There’s still a chance this whole mess works out if you guys just walk away.”

Resisting the urge to ask if the subject was _serious_ , Greg smiled and removed the captive’s wallet. “That’s not gonna happen.” Turning towards a nearby constable, the Sergeant called, “Officer? Hold him.”

He pushed the subject towards the patrol car and headed for the Command Truck, flipping the wallet open as he went. Tugging the door open, he ascended the steps and turned towards his bomb tech. “Spike. ‘Martin Terran.’ Everything you can find out about the guy.”

Spike took the offered wallet, pulling the cards inside out. “Driver’s license, credit cards. That’s not gonna be a problem.”

A brief nod, then Greg’s attention shifted. “Jules, any luck on our 911 caller?”

Jules’ response held no hint of distress, only an undertone of triumph. Good news then. “Terran threatened her with a gun, took her phone, and told her to get lost. She’s a little fighter, she snuck back with her video camera. I’m gonna bring it to you.”

Smart and fierce, just like his niece. “Okay, thanks.”

“Sam was right,” Scarlatti reported, drawing his boss to stand behind him, reading the computer screen over his shoulder. “You were talking to Captain Martin Terran. Or he was. He left the army two years ago.”

“Intelligence Branch,” Greg murmured, searching the information for hints, clues as to why Terran was behaving so cavalierly towards law enforcement. Like he didn’t trust them to do their jobs…or maybe to do the right thing…

“Citations, awards, medals.”

“So why’d he leave?”

“Better paycheck,” Spike replied matter-of-factly, “He’s now vice president of risk operations for a company called CMI, Conflict Management International.”

“Yeah, I know CMI,” Sam offered up. “They’re real active overseas.”

“Private security?” Greg ventured.

“No, more like training and support. Liaison. Fixers, really.”

Fixers. So what was a fixer doing in the middle of a skate park, waving a gun?

“You know this guy Terran?” Spike asked their veteran.

“If he’s former military, I can make some calls,” Sam replied.

“That’d be great, Sam,” the Sergeant agreed. The sooner they could nail down what the heck was going on, the sooner they’d be in a position to start some fixing of their own.

Jules picked up the baton, smooth and effortless. “I found a good three-quarters shot of our guy. I’m gonna get a screen grab and send it out.”

“That’s a gang tat,” Raf observed; Greg straightened – was Raf’s true expertise breaking through the curse?

“On his neck?” Jules asked.

“Yeah,” Raf confirmed. “Metaca Mafia, M2. It’s a sign of commitment. Once you’re in, you’re in for life.”

Low man on the Guns ‘n’ Gangs totem pole Raf might be, but he obviously knew his stuff. Once he got back to his _real_ life, Parker had a feeling ‘his’ constable would rise through the ranks quite swiftly. “Ed?”

“Boss, it’s time to check in with Guns ‘n’ Gangs.”

Wordy…delight surged from his wild side; not being able to watch over a member of his ‘Pride’ had driven the gryphon half mad over the past week.

Spike spoke up before the Sergeant could approve his team leader’s decision. “Got a lead on the money, Boss. Sequential bills traced back to Hingston Financial. Withdrawn from a corporate account this morning connected to an oil and gas firm called Bridgefield International.”

“That’s the connection, Boss,” Sam agreed. “Bridgefield hired Terran six months ago. They send their employees to some pretty dangerous places and Terran specializes in anti-kidnapping protocols. What to do to keep your employees safe.”

“So, what’s he doing at a skate park?” Greg mused, frowning as a several pieces started clicking into place, forming a rather unsavory picture.

* * * * *

“Is this Detective Kevin James Wordsworth, rising star of Guns and Gangs?” Ed teased, part of him wishing his best friend hadn’t had to leave. Raf was a good guy, but he’d never be Wordy.

The truck’s siren wailed as he flew towards his buddy’s new workplace. A fleeting thought of his brother Roy ghosted through his mind, then Lane shoved it aside, clenching the steering wheel – his brother’s death at the hands of his Wiccan girlfriend was still an open wound. Her own suicide immediately thereafter had been even worse – denying him both justice and revenge on Roy’s behalf.

Wordy gave the teasing right back. “Edward Tucker Lane. More like second from the bottom of the totem pole. Give me a pencil though, I can push it for you.”

Ed allowed a breath of laughter, then turned serious. “Look, Wordy, I need a hand here, buddy.”

“Shoot.”

“I need some info on the Metaca Mafia.”

“No problem,” Wordy replied. “How’s that new guy doing?” _How are you doing?_

Ed dodged the unspoken question; Wordy was the only member of his team who knew about Roy’s death – not even _Greg_ knew. “Oh, he’s doing okay. Big shoes to fill, buddy.”

His best friend chuckled, though it was half-hearted. “I bet. So here’s what we have on your guys. Metaca Mafia, M2. Big in Mexico. Into pretty much everything down there. Slowly moving north.”

Not slowly enough. “Listen, what’s their game up here?” Ed asked.

On the other end of the phone, he heard pages being flipped before Wordy offered his verdict. “Looks like a bit of a blank slate. Uh… Recruiting. Making noise. There’s a tag on the file.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, you’re gonna have to talk to someone a little further up the totem pole.”

The Boss broke in with nary a stumble. “Hey, Wordy, any chance kidnapping is on their to-do list?”

Spike, as always, filed in the details. “Bridgefield, the company Terran’s been working for, had a rash of kidnappings down in Mexico and M2 seems to be behind them.”

Wordy’s pleasure was unfeigned and even a bit excited. As if he’d only _just_ left Team One…Ed frowned to himself. “It’s good to hear your voice, gentlemen.” Regret dampened the excitement. “There’s nothing in the file on kidnapping. But like I said, I’m not the expert.”

“Okay. Thanks, Wordy. I’ll be there in five.”

“I’ll line up some intel,” Wordy promised.

* * * * *

Greg stepped out of the Command Truck, a frown firmly in place. Partway through Wordy’s conversation with Ed, his smartphone had buzzed with a text. From _Roy_. Unfortunately, the hot call was moving too fast to even glance at the message, but he was starting to get a _real_ bad feeling – if Roy hadn’t been affected…oh, boy. The man was pure _techie_ , he had _no_ magic of his own to fight off the curse. Which meant…what…?

Turning his attention back to the call, Parker ordered the patrolman, “Get him out.” A glance in the other direction and a curt, “Jules,” drew his constable over. As Terran was stepping out, the Sergeant began, “Okay. So an oil and gas company hires you to train their guys in case they’re kidnapped.”

“Because it happened down in Mexico,” Jules finished.

“And now, here you are, handing out money in a park, obstructing police. Feels like the kidnappers have moved north and you’ve decided to do the ransom drop-off yourself. Tell me when I’m wrong.”

To the negotiator’s complete lack of surprise, the former army captain said nothing; no denial, but certainly no help either. And Terran’s smug arrogance and half sneer weren’t doing him any favors.

Pressing his advantage, Parker pointed out, “We’re not in Mexico anymore, Martin. Everybody plays by the rules here. Come on. We’re the only ones that can save your client now.”

The subject’s face twisted as if he’d bitten into a lemon and he glanced around, searching for a way out, before finally laying out a few of his cards. Whether he’d folded remained to be seen. “All right, look. This is express kidnapping. In Latin America, there’s a gang called M2. They grab a worker, demand a small amount, ten, fifteen grand, the company pays.”

“Is it common?” Jules asked.

“Reported cases, fifteen-hundred, two thousand a year. Unreported, five times that, easily. Dealing with these gangs is the cost of doing business.”

Mental eyebrows hiked and Greg had a fleeting desire to ask why these companies hadn’t asked Gringotts for help – goblins versus gangs? No contest…but also against the Statute. “What about the police?”

Without even a flicker in his expression, Terran replied, “They’re usually in on it. Gangs give them a cut.”

“Does it happen up here?” Jules, stepping into the gap while Parker throttled his offended feral half – some cops _were_ dirty, just a fact of life.

“Yeah, it’s a carbon copy of what we’ve seen down South. The same wording, the same timing, the disposable phone they gave me to use. Now, the price tag is a little higher.”

“Target’s more important?” the negotiator inquired.

Terran shifted awkwardly, but confirmed the pair’s suspicions. “They took Bridgefield’s CEO, Colin Hamilton.”

“So what’s next?” the ever-practical Jules asked.

Terran shrugged as best he could. “Hopefully they call back and we get another chance to deliver the cash.”

“Maybe not, because now they know we’re involved,” Callaghan mused.

“Or they might use Hamilton as an example,” Greg interjected, “So that they’re not crossed in the future, right?”

Frustration twisted their subject’s expression. “Yeah.”

“We gotta move, Boss.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” the Sergeant agreed as he and Jules turned away and headed towards the trucks. “All right team, listen up. We’ve got a confirmed kidnapping, Colin Hamilton. He’s very much at risk. We need a new plan. Eddie, we need to push this up the chain to Guns ‘n’ Gangs, figure out where M2 is holding this guy.”

Even as he spoke, Greg tugged his phone out and checked his messages, both brows shooting up at the message.

PLEASE TELL ME  
YOU KNOW WHAT  
THE HELL IS GOING ON.

His reply took only moments to compose and send.

HOW BAD?

EVERYONE THINKS I’M DEAD.

Greg flinched – well, that did answer _one_ lingering question. Lou was still ‘alive’ because whoever had cast this curse didn’t know he was ‘supposed’ to be dead. Wonderful. And Roy hadn’t been affected because he’d been written out of everyone’s memories. Or possibly because of _how_ he’d been saved… Calculation took only a few seconds.

HEAD FOR MY PLACE.  
ON CALL,  
KIDS WILL BRING YOU UP TO SPEED.

Eddie reported in just as his boss finished texting his team leader’s very much _not_ dead brother. “I’m downtown now, Boss. Wordy’s on it.”

Spike, busy at the computer, offered up their next lead. “Boss, two of the Bridgefield employees who were kidnapped in Mexico; they live in town.”

“Who are they?”

“Carl Miller and Esmie Vargas.”

“Maybe the victims are gonna have insight on how they’re guarded and where they’re kept,” Jules suggested.

Greg inclined his head in agreement. “Spike, you got addresses?”

“Yeah, Vargas lives downtown. Jules, I’m sending you the address right now.”

“I’m on it.”

Lou cut in, though a yelp from Spike informed their boss that the pair were playing their usual ‘who can pull addresses the fastest’ game. “Carl Miller lives in Scarborough.”

“Good. I’ll call him from the truck.”

As Greg stepped up into the Command Truck, Ed’s indignant, “Where’d you get those _scars_ , Word?!?” rang out.

_Yep,_ the Sergeant realized, rather sourly, _Toth’s gonna have a_ field _day._


	6. Scars, Gangs, and Leashes

On Monday morning, Wordy had decided to roll up his sleeves and see if he got any reactions from his coworkers. If, as he suspected, the scars were his own personal delusion, no one would say a thing. Confirming his theory, no one _had_ said a thing.

Then Ed walked in – and hit the roof. “Where’d you get those _scars_ , Word?!?” he demanded, indignation soaring, right along with his temper.

Hastily, Wordy shoved his sleeves back down, hiding the evidence; his best friend’s ‘don’t-you- _dare_ ’ glare burned holes in the fabric. “Ed, leave it,” he ordered. After all, it _wasn’t_ like he could say, ‘Oh, I dreamed Sarge turned into a gryphon and nearly took my head off.’ Nor could he say, ‘Ed, I think I saw your brother come to work today.’

Even though he _had_ ; he’d snuck past Sergeant Gamboli’s door in time to hear Roy exclaim, “Whaddya mean I’m _dead?!?_ ”

Shaking what he’d seen and heard away, Wordy got down to business, steam-rolling over his friend’s attempt to push his sleeve back up with a jerk backwards and a brisk, “Detective Larson’s lead on our M2 investigation, Ed. I told him you were coming and he’s waiting for us.”

His teammate – _former_ teammate – snarled soundlessly in frustration, his expression making it _crystal_ clear that Ed was _not_ dropping the scars, but motioned for the brunet to lead the way.

* * * * *

Scars…Word had _scars_ on both his forearms. Wide, angled, and _nasty_. Whoever had done that to his buddy, his _friend_ , was going to _pay_. They’d hurt one of the _best_ men Ed knew and they were _going to pay_. Dearly. The team leader forced his attention back on the hot call, locking the seething hate away for later. When he could corner Wordy and squeeze every last detail out of him.

For all that he was still privately fuming, Ed did not miss the disdain in Larson’s eyes, the subtle twist of resentment to his mouth. “We first caught sight of these guys three months ago. Orders are to come down hard before they get established.”

“Well, we think they’ve grabbed the CEO of an oil and gas company and are holding him for ransom,” Ed replied. Open and shut, they could go in and get the job done.

The frown turned thoughtful, aimed more at the gang than Wordy. “Kidnapping’s certainly part of their bag of tricks down South.”

Pressing his advantage, Lane asked, “You got any idea where they might be holding him?”

The answer was straightforward, if surprising. “They bought a flower import warehouse, which we think they’re using as a front.”

Sarcasm and incredulity dripped. “Flowers and gangs.”

“It’s a good cover,” Wordy protested.

“We’ve had surveillance on them for a month, but…” Larson shook his head. “Nothing we can move on yet.”

An opening. “Okay, maybe we can help each other out here,” Ed suggested.

The disdain and faint sneer reappeared. “Or maybe you destroy a month of work on a hunch,” Larson countered.

“Look, the clock is ticking on our victim here, okay?”

Wordy stepped into the gap, as if he’d never left Team One. “I’ve read the file,” he offered. “I could go with them, keep them on a leash.” As if…Wordy would be _right_ in there with them.

But Larson didn’t seem to realize that – or maybe he _did_ … “All right. A short leash, Wordsworth.” Dark eyes narrowed. “This is on you.”

Fury rippled just under the team leader’s skin. How _dare_ Larson threaten a member of _his_ … team… But Wordy _wasn’t_. Not anymore. Didn’t mean Team One was gonna let him down – didn’t mean _Ed_ was gonna let him down.

As the pair turned and walked away from Larson, Wordy leaned in, playful as ever. “You’re not a biter, are you?”

Ed couldn’t help it, he smirked back at his best friend, though his gaze drifted to Wordy’s arms. He laughed along with Wordy, but privately he vowed to find out who’d hurt his friend. _And I’ll make them_ pay _._

* * * * *

Greg thanked Carl Miller one last time and hung up, frowning to himself. Very slick, very professional; the gang hadn’t hurt their living payday and they’d let him go as soon as they got the money, but Miller was right. If the company hadn’t paid, M2 would’ve killed him without a flicker of hesitation.

That didn’t bode well for Hamilton, but Parker had to wonder…what if the company _had_ gotten tired of paying ransoms for random employees? What if they _had_ tried to cut the gangs off? Could _that_ be why Hamilton had been taken?

Ed broke into his plotting and musing. “Okay, Boss, I got a lead from Guns ‘n’ Gangs. There’s a warehouse at the bottom of the DVP.”

No mention of Wordy’s scars, but the Sergeant knew his team leader had merely set the matter aside for later. “Thinkin’ that’s where they’re keeping their hostage?” he asked.

“Best place to start.”

Greg inclined his head in agreement and headed out of the Command Truck. Time to move in and see if they could pull Hamilton out of the fire. “Okay, listen up. New target.”

“It’s at the corner of Munitions and Commissioners. Guns ‘n’ Gangs are gonna meet us there. What’s going on with Terran?”

Already collecting their first subject, Parker replied, “He’s coming with us until this is over.” The Sergeant passed Terran off to Spike and made his way to the truck’s driver’s seat, trusting his bomb tech to handle his part. In short order, Terran was secure in the back seat while Scarlatti and his laptop huddled in the passenger seat, the bomb tech ready for action.

The two officers traded wry glances, then Greg pulled out as Spike flipped the siren on. The first part of the ride passed by in silence until they passed a gang tag on a concrete pillar next to the road. M2.

“Well, they’re certainly making their presence known,” the Sergeant observed.

Terran’s disdain rang. “Dogs marking trees.”

“They’re smart enough to kidnap the guy you’re supposed to be protecting.”

Spike’s rejoinder finally deflated their subject. After a beat, Terran asked, “How can I help?”

It only took an instant to consider. “Do you know this guy, the CEO, Hamilton?” Greg asked.

A touch of the arrogance reappeared. “Yeah, I trained him personally. Breathing techniques to stay calm, positive visualization, the works.”

“Any chance he’s personalizing himself to the kidnappers?”

“Instrumental kidnappings like this, where the only goal is money, that’s what we recommend. You talk to them, you try to find common ground.”

The negotiator nodded approvingly while his gryphon side hissed softly in derision. “That’s good. Makes you seem more human. Harder to hurt you that way.”

Surety fell away, revealing a man far more concerned than he’d let himself show. “If I did my job right,” Terran whispered, “he’s got a chance.”

* * * * *

Jules sat opposite Esmie Vargas, inwardly cringing. Esmeralda Vargas was a beautiful, athletic woman…who walked with a cane. Long, sleek black hair fell a few centimeters past her shoulders, framing dark eyes, slim brows, and a light shade of pink lipstick. She was a proud woman, immaculately put together in spite of her physical infirmities and recent experience. As she faced the sniper, her chin was up, her expression a mix of defiance and endurance.

“People who’ve been kidnapped, they all say the same thing. That they never expected it to happen to them. And if anyone had a blessed life, it was me. M2, they took that all away. They grabbed me from the street in the middle of the morning, and it was over in a second. There was a gun to my back, and a hand over my mouth and then nothing.”

Despite her animated expressions, Jules couldn’t help but notice that Esmie sat stiffly, rigidly, as if she feared letting her guard down.

“I couldn’t walk more than a few steps. I was alone for hours or days. I don’t know.” She drew a deep breath. “But there are worse things.”

Callaghan cringed when Esmie glanced down at her feet. She’d been afraid of this as soon as she’d seen the former marathon runner appear, leaning heavily on her cane and struggling up the stairs.

“And then my… My company refused to pay. They were tired of being held hostage by these gangs. But the M2 meant business.” Another pause, another glance down, this glance filled with a terrible bitterness. “They wanted to send the company proof that they had me, and that they were serious. It took…it took just a second for them to get what they wanted.”

What could she say…what _was_ there to say? “I’m so sorry,” Jules whispered, painfully aware of how…inadequate…that was.

Esmie flashed another angry, bitter smile. “You know, diabetics, our bodies don’t handle injuries very well. Bones get infected, they begin to die, especially in our feet. And the treatment is very expensive.”

Jules squirmed inwardly, her negotiator mask firmly in place. “Yeah,” she agreed, before shifting and pulling out her phone. “You’ve been a really big help. Can I ask you one more question?”

“Of course.”

Swiftly, the constable brought the captured picture up on screen and turned the phone to face Esmie. “Was this one of your kidnappers?”

Esmie hardly glanced at the phone before she replied, “Yes. He was with them in Mexico.”

“Are you sure?” Her instincts were jangling. The kidnappers had let Esmie see their faces?

“Yes, I’m sure. You don’t forget those faces. He was with M2.”

She was dealing with a witness, not a suspect, so Jules nodded without pressing further. “Okay. Thank you.”

* * * * *

Wordy had just finished pulling his – flimsy, inadequate, pathetic – bulletproof vest in place when an SRU truck sailed up and parked in the middle of the gathering cluster of cop cars. Spike pushed open the passenger door, a teasing grin written _all_ over his face. “That pass for a uniform in Guns ‘n’ Gangs?”

“We don’t need help remembering each other’s names,” Wordy instantly retorted, trailing after Spike to push his shoulder, ignoring the painful wrench in his chest. His team. _His team._ Guns ‘n’ Gangs would never be his team…it couldn’t be. Why, oh, why had he _left_? And for some reason, Parkinson’s didn’t immediately spring to mind.

Ed intervened before the bomb tech could tease any further. “Spike, let’s go. Eyes.”

Wordy watched as the pair sprinted off, hardly noticing Sam moving into position until he asked, “How are you? How are things?”

Reality drove the longings away, powering his reply. “Say it like it is, buddy. Parkinson’s is good. Everything’s fine.”

No, it wasn’t, but he couldn’t tell _them_ that. A black man shifted forward next, past Lou’s wry grin, shaking his hand. “Raf Rousseau.”

“Hey. Hear good things. Wordy.”

“Oh, I know who you are. These guys won’t let me forget.”

Then Sarge moved into position, fidgeting and somehow ending up extending his left hand instead of his right. “Wordy, you’re looking good.”

“Yeah, you too…” He saw it, was too close to do anything _but_ see it. His boss’s eyes caught fire, turning scarlet.

The mood bracelet warmed against his skin.

Reality screamed.

And shattered.

* * * * *

_A mithril bracelet, engraved with runes both inside and out, given to him by two young teenagers less than twenty-four hours after putting in his transfer paperwork._

_Telling Sarge to shred it._

_Seeing the gobsmacked expressions on his teammates’ faces when he told them he was_ staying _._

_His own words to Moffet,_ months _before the kids had given him the bracelet. “I’m Team One and I’ll_ be _Team One_ long _after you’re in cuffs and cooling your heels in McKean.”_

* * * * *

_I’m Team One. I’m_ Team One _. I never left…I’m still Team One._ Wordy shook his head, dazed, but the pieces were clicking together, finally joining into one cohesive picture. _But if I’m Team One…how did I get_ here _?_ He glanced up, gray meeting worried hazel. Sarge knew. He _knew_. That was why Claire had gone to him…because he _knew_. And so did she.

“Wordy?” Too soft for anyone else to hear.

The answer came instinctively, slipping into place, just like the rest. Dropping his voice so low that only his boss’s hypersensitive hearing could _possibly_ catch the words, he whispered, “Auror Wordsworth reporting for duty.”

Joy blazed, Wordy shifting uncomfortably as he realized it was the gryphon, not Sarge, but it was the Boss who grinned broadly, worry vanishing. “Copy that.”

Explanations would have to wait, so the constable stole a glance around, then quirked a brow in silent question. What now?

“What do we know?”

Wordy shook himself internally, focusing on the call. Right. Hostage, gang, express kidnapping. Not a good time for him to flake out on his team. His _team_. “They got between ten and fifteen guys inside. They’re armed with everything from sawed-offs to pistols.” He turned, pulling out the photos Larson had loaned him and tugging one to the top. He’d lived and breathed Guns ‘n’ Gangs for a week, plus he’d read the whole M2 file before Ed showed up. He could _do_ this. “This is Ronaldo Ortega. Big name in Mexico. They sent him north to run the farm team.”

Sam leaned forward, inspecting the picture. “Do you have anyone inside we need to worry about?”

Smoothly, Wordy pulled another photo out. “We’re wondering about this guy, Miguel Salazar. Mexican undercovers approached him a couple months ago. It was looking promising, then it fell apart.”

Rousseau nodded thoughtfully. “Once you’re inside…”

Gang knowledge. His replacement on Team One. His… replacement… “It’s tough to get out,” Wordy finished, glancing at Sarge, then meaningfully flicked his eyes at the new guy.

As Rousseau replied, “That’s right,” Sarge nodded once, too subtle for any of the others to notice.

“We have pictures from the inside?” Sam asked.

“No, we haven’t gotten inside yet.”

He saw his teammates pause, clearly listening to someone – probably Jules – brief them. A pang ran through him, but he knew. There was no time to get him in his gear, no way to explain why a guy who’d supposedly transferred out of the SRU had done no such thing. He suppressed a jerk – _Roy_ – Roy was _alive_. And probably utterly bewildered at why everyone thought he was dead.

Sarge nodded thoughtfully, picking up the conversation. “Well, the MO matches what I got from Miller. Warehouse is looking better and better.” Another nod and a flash of his boss’s feral grin – was Sarge’s gryphon side acting up again? “Copy that.”

Ed joined them, still scanning the perimeter. “Spike.”

Fortunately, none of his teammates questioned it when Sarge abruptly pulled his radio free and yanked out the headset cable, allowing Wordy to hear Spike’s reply. A grin quirked the constable’s mouth at his boss’s wink. “Best bet is a loading bay where they bring in all the pretty flowers. Just saw a delivery, when the truck goes through, there’s no one standing guard at the door.”

Ed as always, was direct to threat. “Okay, next truck in, we follow. These guys are looking for an out of the way place to keep their victim.”

Sam got down to planning. “Okay, building like this, probably poured-concrete floor, so no basement.”

Lou frowned thoughtfully. “Warehouse has gotta have a machine room, air-conditioning, heating,” he pointed out.

Over the comm, Spike agreed. “You gotta keep those flowers healthy.”

“Okay, guys, there’s our target,” the team leader decided. “Guns ‘n’ Gangs cover our flanks, keep a tight perimeter. Spike, I need you back down here.”

“Copy that.”

“We go in hard, we go in fast,” Ed ordered.

Sam lifted his voice, clearly acting as the backup team leader; part of Wordy bristled – _he_ was the backup team leader, not _Sam_. “Okay, do not fire unless you are fired upon.”

“Guys, we’re gonna stack up at the entrance,” Ed continued. “As soon as we get in, we split up. Alpha Team, Spike, Jules, and myself.” Fixing his gaze on the rest of their team, he added, “You four will be Bravo Team. Jules, what’s your 20?”

“Seconds away.”

“As soon as she gets here, we’re a go.”

“All right, let’s stay ahead of the news.” Sarge shot Wordy a significant look and the constable swallowed hard, understanding. They had to keep up the act. Blast it all.

It took an act of iron will to go against two decades of being Ed’s second, but Wordy forced himself to do it. He pulled his friend aside and hissed, “Ed? Ed, Ed, Ed. This is our shot at getting these guys. If we go in there without a warrant or intel--”

Ed’s response was predictable. “Wordy, we got credible proof there’s a life’s in danger.”

For himself, he was behind his team leader all the way. But once whatever-this-was was over, _Rousseau_ was going to be picking up the pieces Wordy left for him. And probably getting flack from both Larson _and_ Collins for getting to spend a week on the SRU’s top team. “But is his life in danger in there?”

“You wanna go knock and ask him?” Wonderful…this was probably Ed getting back at him for clamming up about the scars. Scars Wordy had _no_ intention of explaining until Ed _remembered_. Maybe not even then.

“What if we don’t find anything?”

“We keep looking.”

“And the investigation falls apart, these guys walk; Larson made it clear. This is my mess if it goes south.” Rousseau’s mess, actually, but who was he to quibble over the difference.

“Wordy, Wordy, you got a better idea here?”

No, of course not. Going in was the only way; they both knew it. The constable shook his head, regret lodging in his gut. “Look, we’re coming in with you.”

Ed jerked back, surprised, as if anything else hadn’t even been an option to him. “Of course. You cuff them, but leave the driving to us.”

Wordy froze. Ed was… giving… _him_ credit for the busts? If he’d really been Guns ‘n’ Gangs, that would’ve made his name. Probably _would_ make Rousseau’s name. “You sure?”

Ed turned, looking him in the eye. Teammates. No matter what. “I’m positive. Wordy, if this thing goes bad, it’s on me, all right? Give you some distance with Larson. You’re gonna be all right, trust me.”

The big constable swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “Thanks.” What else was there to say?

Jules’ truck screamed onto the scene and Ed Lane gazed up at the nearby warehouse. “Okay, guys. Let’s get them.”

* * * * *

Team One, armed with submachine guns, hovered behind a waist-high concrete wall right next to an old metal ladder painted yellow, watching the gate into the flower warehouse intently. Greg stayed back, his gryphon side keening at the lack of Wordy’s presence and his human side _extremely_ relieved to have one of his teammates _back_. Not all the way back – his constable was still stuck in Guns ‘n’ Gangs – but that Wordy _remembered_ was enough.

Add in Wordy’s immediate clamp down on the emotional bombardment and Parker was finally starting to have a good day. The rest of his team was still pounding him, but even a small bit of relief was welcome. Now if only they could rescue Hamilton, bring down a dangerous Mexican gang, break this lousy curse, and put this whole mess to bed, he would be a very happy Sergeant. Not likely, but he could hope.

Spike’s murmur brought him back on task. “Once that truck goes through, we got a really short window.”

As if on cue, the black delivery truck went through the gate. “Go, go, go,” Ed hissed.

The officers moved, Team One in front and Wordy’s crew bringing up the rear. The gryphon settled and Parker stole a glance back, meeting determined gray eyes. The big constable couldn’t back his team up directly, but Wordy wasn’t about to let them down, even if it meant sticking closer than he should.

Turning his attention forward again, Greg let his feral side emerge just enough to sharpen both eyes and ears; he failed to realize his canines had also lengthened into fangs, the gryphon taking _full_ advantage of his dull and battered ‘team sense’.

The first part of the takedown went smoothly as Team One swept down on the truck drivers, surrounding and arresting them before they even realized they’d been compromised.

“Right down, right down,” Ed ordered.

Beside him, Sam hissed, “On the ground now.”

“On the ground, now,” Jules ordered from the other side.

“Down on the ground now,” Spike said, his submachine gun reinforcing the command.

The two drivers obeyed, Team One moving past them to a doorway hung with large transparent yellow plastic strips while Wordy’s crew arrested the drivers. The constable stayed focused on his arrestees, but edged close enough to hear Ed’s orders.

“Okay, guys, we got a set of stairs. Raf and Jules, you take them.” Turning, the team leader added, “Wordy, give us a minute. We’ll give you the sign.”

“Copy.” Sharp, crisp, as if he’d only just left Team One.

_Or,_ Greg mused wryly to himself, _Never left it in the first place._

Ed’s attention shifted to his boss. “You good?”

Parker blinked, surprised his team leader had caught onto his rough couple of days. “Yeah.” He wasn’t, not really, but he could back his team _just_ fine.

“Let’s go.”

In one fluid movement, they moved in, heading through the strips and already scanning for trouble. Jules and Raf, as ordered, headed up the stairs while Greg shifted towards Sam and watched Lewis and Spike bracket Ed, the team’s two techs just as fierce as their sniper team leader. A small cluster of gang members caught their eyes and the groups split, crushing the gang in a pincer move.

Keeping his voice down, Sam ordered, “Show me your hands. Now. On your knees.”

“Right there,” Ed breathed.

As his target resisted, Sam growled, “Drop your weapon. Drop it. Now.”

Greg brought his own gang member down, letting his predator’s stance and silence intimidate more than words could.

Once they were all down, Ed swiveled back to the doorway and waved. “Wordy.”

Wordy had edged as close to the plastic as he could manage, sidearm in hand and eyes scanning for trouble. At his team leader’s signal, he ducked under the strips and moved in, eyes still on the move as he led his crew in for the arrests. As the men were cuffed, Jules and Raf returned from their upstairs foray.

“Just a lunch room up there,” Callaghan reported. “It’s all clear.”

Braddock nodded once and glanced up at Lane. “Hammer and anvil?”

“We’ll meet you in the back.”

* * * * *

Wordy throttled the urge to group up with his team, regardless of his lack of armor and radio. Instead, he settled for hanging as close to Eddie as he could, dancing right on the edge of the other man’s orders to let Team One do the driving. He _was_ Team One, thank you very much! Except for the past week, the memories of being in Guns ‘n’ Gangs were already fading, like the lies they’d always been.

He was still too far back; mentally the brunet cursed at himself when he realized he wasn’t close enough to hear Ed’s orders – either to the team or to the subjects. The hand motions were clear though – Wordy and his ‘fellow’ detectives hustled to arrest the latest batch of captured gang members. He didn’t want to stay put, but Ed’s glare and firm hand gestures left him no choice.

Cautiously, the Squib reached for the corner of his mind that was _Sarge’s_. He’d figured out by accident after McKean that he could do a few things with the anchor that none of his teammates could, bar Sam. Like borrow the Boss’s hearing and eyesight if he was willing to endure the flood of emotions.

It was ten times worse than it had been the first time he’d tried. Fortunately, he was still kneeling on his latest arrestee’s back or he would’ve fallen. As it was, his left hand left his gun grip to catch his balance on the concrete. Before he could cut the flood off, his hearing caught the unmistakable sounds of a Team One takedown as well as the check of the last room to find…nothing.

Not good. Not good at all.

Wordy pushed himself upright and hustled to catch up, ‘his’ crew behind him. Hopefully, he’d get there _before_ Ed’s temper blew. But with the way his day had gone so far, he wasn’t counting on it.

“Where is he? Where is he?”

“No habló ingles, officer!”

The team leader’s frustration was clear, frustration for both not finding their missing hostage and putting his best friend in hot water. “Boss?”

“It’s over, Eddie. Everyone’s cuffed.” Sarge’s glance sideways was too quick for anyone else to notice.

Right. Acting time again. Wordy let his own disappointment out, pretending, as best he could, that his own career was suddenly on the line. “He’s not here.”

“Hey, Wordy?” Rousseau…and he was poking at some of the plants?

“What?” Honest curiosity prompted the question, but his boss’s proud grin sealed the deal. Sarge had _definitely_ ‘adopted’ the young Guns ‘n’ Gangs detective…somehow Wordy had a feeling Roy and Giles were gonna be looking out for Raf once this mess was over.

“Got something you might wanna check out here.”

As soon as he reached Raf’s side, Wordy knew what he was looking at. “No way.” Cocaine. Plain sight and already packaged for sale in the bottom of a _flower pot_. A. Flower. Pot. “No way.”

“Yeah, it’s a darn good way to smuggle and distribute a product, man. You can use that?”

_You sure can,_ Wordy thought to himself, shaking his head in amazement. Ed was gonna have to nominate a new rising star of Guns ‘n’ Gangs, ‘cause he sure wasn’t it. A rough chuckle forced its way free. “If even half these ferns are filled… Uh-huh. Larson’s gonna love me.” _Gonna love you, kid, is more like it._

Of course, Ed couldn’t miss the opening, however wrong he was. “Well, like I said, rising star of Guns ‘n’ Gangs.”

Good, fine, Raf was in the clear…back to business. “What about Hamilton?”

Light blue sharpened. “Where else would they keep him, Wordy?”

“M2 has dozens of smaller hangouts.”

“Doesn’t fit the profile.”

Thinking over the file he’d read, Wordy had to agree. Didn’t fit – M2 was too arrogant to think they’d ever get caught, so why bother keeping their hostage anywhere except their headquarters. Swiftly, Wordy ran the chain of arrests through his head. “There’s a guy at the front desk we need to talk to.”

“Let’s do it,” Ed agreed.

“Yeah.”

With Ed and Raf trailing him, Wordy headed for the front desk, imagining, if only for an instant, that he was in his SRU uniform. The lightweight bulletproof vest and the badge hanging around his neck spoiled the fantasy, but he knew the truth. _I’m Team One. No matter what._

He slowed to a halt out of earshot and nodded to one of the arrestees. “That’s the guy.”

“So this is the potential informer.” Ed’s voice was thoughtful and Wordy had to wonder if his teammate was breaking through…whatever-this-was.

“Should I talk to him?” Raf asked.

“Yeah, see what you can get.”

“All right.”

Wordy heard nothing more, as he had to go corral his temporary coworkers, but Sarge’s clap to his shoulder warmed every inch of him.

* * * * *

Rafik Rousseau shook away the lingering familiarity with Wordy’s crew and walked into the room with their potential informant. He glanced at the nearby officer, pointed to the other arrestee and requested, “Can you take him out of here?” Once he and the informant were alone, he asked, “You speak English?”

In near perfect English, the Mexican replied, “I have nothing to say.”

“That’s cool. I get it. It’s the code, right? Talk to the police it’s malo para usted?”

His accent was terrible and got the expected snort. “Malo para usted? Yeah, it’s ‘bad for you.’ ”

“If you help us, we can help you.”

“You’re going to help me when they deport me back to Méjico? Come on.”

Point. Sighing, Raf shook his head. “Yeah, you’re right,” he admitted, before pulling up a picture on his phone and bringing it up for the other to see. “All right, well, can you at least identify a guy?”

The informant glanced at the picture. “I don’t know him.”

Skepticism blazed. “Really?”

“No.”

“Got the same tat.” Wait… Raf glanced between the photo and his captive, pieces clicking together. Then dark eyes widened and he hauled their silent, but still helpful informant out of the warehouse.

* * * * *

Wordy hung close to his team, close enough to overhear an argument between his boss and another man. “Where’s Colin?”

“He wasn’t in there.”

“These guys don’t know where he is?”

Ed cut in, tone brisk. “They’re not talking.” Not a witness then? The brunet frowned, trying to puzzle through what few clues he had. Who was this guy? The ‘Terran’ Spike had mentioned?

“What the hell’s your new plan, Parker?” Wait, wait, wait…this guy had the _gall_ to blame Sarge? “If we’d done this my way, Hamilton would be at home with his wife and kids right now.”

Sarge wasn’t taking it. “And next week another CEO gets kidnapped. There’s no way we’re letting M2 think that’s how it works.”

No, they were _not_. Wordy bristled, about to insert himself despite his lack of a Team One uniform. Sam inadvertently saved his target. “So we took a closer look and no one here is a match for our guy at the skate park.”

Swinging around, Wordy fumbled for a reply. How had he gotten through the last week again? Raf’s arrival saved _him_. “Because he’s not one of them,” the _real_ Guns ‘n’ Gangs detective explained, pushing his informant at a handy officer. “Tattoo was on the wrong side of the neck. It’s always on the left because it’s closest to the heart. There’s no way he gets that wrong if he’s the real deal.”

“Okay, so if the guy that we’re chasing isn’t M2, then Esmie Vargas lied to us.” Jules’ voice was straightforward, but with a hint of sorrow.

Ed’s disagreement was instant, the hot call coalescing for his friends if not for him. “No, she was keeping us off track.”

Sarge inclined his head. “The kidnapping changed her life. She can’t get even with the gang, so maybe she takes a shot at the company that put her there.”

The mystery guy – Terran? – murmured, “Knowing we’d pay.”

“She had to have help,” Ed pointed out. “Because she didn’t pick up that ransom by herself.”

“She’s got a brother,” Jules offered. “Her mom said that she was close to him.”

“I’ve got the brother right here. His name’s Joaquin.”

Lou, standing right behind Spike, looked over his shoulder and added, “He’s a match for our money man.”

“Right you are, buddy,” the bomb tech chirped. “Guys, it’s on your smartphones.”

Ed pulled out his phone and Wordy managed to crane his neck for a glimpse; Sarge winked at him as he leaned in from the opposite side. “I got it.”

After a moment, Sarge handed out new orders. “Okay, new game, team. Everything we can on Joaquin Vargas. Jules.”

“I’ll talk to Esmie.”

Sorrow shone as hazel and gray locked one last time, Wordy understanding the silent order. Back to his ‘crew’. For now. Turning to the loudmouth company guy, Sarge added, “Martin, come with me.”

Wordy ghosted away, glancing back in pure regret. _Stay safe guys._ He rejoined the Guns ‘n’ Gangs detectives, organizing the clean up and evidence collection as best he could. He probably acted more like a Team One constable than a Guns ‘n’ Gangs detective, but none of them seemed to notice. As the investigation shifted into high gear, Wordy headed for his sedan to call Larson and update him on what they’d found so far.

He’d just reached the car when he felt icy fingers touch his neck. He whirled, reaching for his sidearm, caught a glimpse of cold emerald eyes, then he fell, blackness washing his vision away as the raven woman smiled, a crystal orb in her free hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who have been praying that I would get onto a new project soon, thank you very much. I am pleased to report that I'm currently in the middle of a background check for my new project, which is in Dallas, so I will not have to move after all. I have also been told that this is a long term project, which means if all goes well, it could be years before I have to face the limbo and uncertainty of the past month and a half. Although only the Lord knows the future, I am confident that He will provide, no matter what happens.
> 
> On a side note, the week I am scheduled to start will also be the week that a new story starts, but I will do my best to maintain the schedule that I have for the past couple years. If I can, I will post before going to work, but if not, it will be in the evening, CST.
> 
> Thank you all and Praise the Lord.


	7. Breaking through the Spell

The raven-haired woman perched above the confrontation, a small, vicious smile playing on her lips. Behind her, the knight lay in a heap, the spell around him keeping him locked in nightmares until _she_ released him. The other knights would come, but they would never realize…not until it was too late.

Below her, the bitter woman asked, “How is he?”

“Terrified,” her brother replied.

“Good.” Vengeful, seething. Perfect.

“Maybe that’s enough.” The raven’s lip curled. Pathetic little _mongrel_. Had he no sense of justice, of _vengeance_?

“What do you mean?” the woman demanded sharply.

“You wanted him to feel what you felt.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, he does. But I told you, Es, the police are on this now.”

The police. Sniveling, whimpering _weasel_. The Knights are coming, let us run, let us flee. How many times had she heard such _cowardice_? Were he one of _hers_ … Her hand lifted, her mind eagerly presenting suggestions for how to _deal_ with the traitor…

“No.”

“The money, it’s just not gonna come.”

Indignation rose from the female, coupled with dismay. “Joaquin, you haven’t called Terran back? You said you would! That’s why I came to watch over him.”

“It’s too dangerous,” the coward pleaded. “If I go to a drop-off, the police will be everywhere, okay? Right now they still don’t know who we are. We should let him go.”

No. No, she couldn’t have that. But the bitter, vengeful woman spoke before she could act. “What? And walk away? Are you kidding? This man has to pay for what he did to me.”

Yes, yes, yes. Make him _pay_. Pay in gold, pay in _blood_. Delight shone and the raven leaned forward, drinking in the confrontation.

“There’s gotta be another way.” More pleading, more sniveling. Coward. Whelp. Traitor.

“I can’t work. I can’t think. I can’t sleep. I can barely walk. I need this money.”

“I can help.” Help. Above the siblings, the raven sneered.

“Do you have $60,000? Because you know that’s what it’s gonna cost just for the first operation, plus airfare and physio.” She stopped, her tone turning wistful, wheedling. “Joaquin, Joaquin, Joaquin. Do you remember our first day at St. Michael’s? Mommy dropped us off outside the school. I held your hand because she told me to. She said you were going to be scared, but you weren’t. I was.”

Emerald glowed in excitement. Yes, good…very good.

“Yeah, you didn’t come back after lunch.”

Dark eyes turned intent. “And you found me hiding in the field behind the school. Do you remember what you said to me?”

“When you run away, you lose.”

“And to win, you have to face them head on. You helped me get my life back, Joaquin. Help me again.” She stopped, letting the moment hang. Above her, the raven waited, smug in the inevitable ending. “Call them.”

Laughter spilled free, unheard in the wards around her. “Soon, little knight,” she sneered, turning towards the man locked in nightmares, his body twitching as he fought them. “Soon your nightmare will end. Forever.”

* * * * *

Tension hummed inside him, but they needed to do this right. Greg frowned as Jules reappeared, too quickly to have gotten in contact with their former kidnap victim. “Boss, just got off the phone with Esmie’s mom. She’s not there. She went to go--”

“Meet her brother?” Not good. Not good at all.

“Exactly. No location though.”

“We’re looking into Joaquin now,” Sam reported.

* * * * *

Raf regarded the man who’d broken their hot call wide open. Part of him wanted to stay, make sure all the evidence was collected properly…finally make his name… Reality intruded. He was SRU Team One, his job was elsewhere.

Stepping back and aware of his team leader right next to him, Raf said, “Good luck, man.”

As the two SRU constables moved away, their informant spoke up. “I know her.”

Lane jerked around first, Raf only a beat behind. “Who?”

“Esmie Vargas.”

_No_ way _._

* * * * *

Gazing into her brother’s eyes, with a faint trace of malicious laughter ringing in her ears, Esmie leaned forward, intent, and held out her cell phone. “Call them.”

* * * * *

Ed took the lead. “What do you know about her?”

The Mexican shook his head, trying to pull out. “I can’t, no.”

_Uh-huh, not this time._ “Yes, you can,” Raf pressed. “She makes the wrong move now, she won’t live through this.”

“And what happens to me?”

“Nobody needs to know about this, Miguel,” the team leader replied.

Raf drilled in, working into the cracks in their informant’s gang armor. “I can see that you care about her, man. Now is your chance to protect her.” Protect. Not hurt.

Dark eyes glanced up, met his. Regret shone and bitterness. Self-hatred. “I should have before. I was one of her kidnappers.” Miguel shook his head, staring into the past, his eyes the only clue to how much the chain of events had affected him. “She was so scared. Especially when…”

He didn’t say the words as he looked down, but the two officers understood him perfectly. Miguel drew in a breath. “I did not help him, but I did not stop him. It was not supposed to be this way. The first three times, no problem. We grabbed them, the company pays, easy money. But this time… No, no, no, no. I tried to help the only way I could think of.”

“You tried to help her?” Raf asked when their informant stopped.

“I gave her my sun.”

Raf and Ed traded confused glances, then turned back to their informant, silently demanding elaboration.

He thrust his chin forward and up, bringing the dark brown necklace he wore to their attention. “I told her to be strong, that she would be free and I would protect her.” A breath. “I promised she was not alone.” Indicating the necklace, he added, “It was a wooden carving like this.”

“That one there?” Ed asked, just to be sure.

“It’s made of ironwood. It’s very, very strong. I thought it would help.”

Gazing at the necklace, the team leader murmured, “It still might.”

* * * * *

Inside the Command Truck, Parker and Terran stood behind Braddock, who was tapping away at the computer in an effort to find more information about their newest subject. Normally, Lou or Spike handled the computer, but if Wordy’s departure had taught Sam one thing, it was that you couldn’t count on your teammates to _always_ be around to work their magic.

Behind the sniper, a cell phone rang and he froze. Awww…man…why’d he insisted on doing the search himself again?

Confirming his suspicions, Terran announced, “That’s him.”

“Hold on,” the Boss ordered. “Sam, can you trace it?”

“I can get it started.” Even as he spoke, Braddock’s fingers flew over the keyboard.

“Sam, I’ll be there in two seconds,” Spike called.

The blond’s focus narrowed to the computer as his Sarge stalled for every iota of time they could get. “Just don’t answer yet.”

“I gotta pick up this call.”

“Don’t answer.”

“They’re gonna cut him or worse.”

The negotiator backed down, but more, Sam suspected, because he knew Spike was close than because Terran was winning the argument. “Okay, just keep him on the line, all right? You know how to do that?”

_Oooh, ouch, Sarge is_ not _happy._

Neither was their first subject. “Yeah,” he snipped as he snapped the phone up and the bomb tech darted in behind him.

_Nice timing._

“Terran.”

They all heard the response as Sam hastily scooted out of the bomb tech’s way and Scarlatti’s hands danced over the keyboard, dark eyes alight with enthusiasm. “This is your last chance to get Hamilton back unharmed.”

“Yeah, thank you. Look, we obviously wanna cooperate.”

“You have to make the police understand. If I see them, he dies.”

“I understand.”

Sam stole a glance up at his boss. _This_ was stalling? Terran wasn’t even _trying_. Hazel flicked to him, narrow and unhappy, but the response was clear. _Let me handle it._

“Thirty minutes,” their primary subject ground out. “Under the clock at Union Station, last chance.”

Terran, perhaps catching onto the unhappy expressions around him, replied, “Yeah, okay. Listen, how do I know my guy’s alive? I need to know that he’s alive and that he’s in one piece.”

“You’ll have your proof.” _Click_.

_Nice_ going _, hotshot._

“It’s somewhere in the waterfront,” Spike announced. “I’m sending everybody a map right now. We’re looking at a six-block radius. Our kidnapper’s somewhere in there.”

“Let’s go,” the Boss agreed.

“I’ll make some calls en route,” Sam informed his teammates as the Command Truck group moved. “Jules?”

“Engine’s running.”

Their team leader laid out the bottom line. “We can’t let this guy get to Union Station. There’s too many bystanders. We need to button this up now.”

Outside the Command Truck and heading for the nearest SRU truck, the Boss tacked on, “These aren’t professionals. They’ll be quick to panic and overreact.”

As paths crossed at the trucks, Raf said, “Boss, Miguel Salazar, he’s one of the guys who kidnapped her in Mexico.”

Glancing over, Parker asked, “The guy right there? What’d he say?”

“Long story.”

“Fill you in on the way,” Ed agreed.

* * * * *

As the SRU truck raced down the road, siren wailing, Greg divided his focus between the road and the man in the backseat.

“If it’s Esmie Vargas, this changes everything.”

It did. “Not just about money anymore.” All things considered, it almost would’ve been _better_ if M2 _had_ kidnapped Hamilton.

Terran’s voice was grim. “Hamilton’s training, you know, to reach out, make a connection, that’s for instrumental kidnapping, not emotional.”

And in a crisis situation, you stuck with your training. Especially if you weren’t equipped with the tools to know better. “If he does that to Esmie, it could backfire. It could escalate her. How volatile is she?”

A verbal shrug. “You’ve read the literature. Her reactions can run the gamut. Shock, numbness.”

Hazel narrowed and irritation rose. “Yeah, impaired decision-making, hostile attitude toward the world. I’m not talking about generalities. I’m talking about Esmie, specifically.”

Silence. Barely even breathing. No. No.

“You didn’t talk to her after she came back?” The negotiator felt his chest rumble in a subliminal growl. His respect for the former soldier, already low, dropped to the depths.

“Like a decompression interview? No. Not everybody needs it.”

“Oh, come on, you don’t believe that.”

The response was filled with regret and ‘should-have-been’s. “No. No, I don’t. But post-captivity programs are expensive and Hamilton was already furious at having to shell out ten grand to these guys. He didn’t wanna do it again.”

How he kept the growl subvocal with his ‘team sense’ so battered, Greg wasn’t sure, but he managed. He even managed to keep his tone level and unruffled. “And he washed his hands.”

“Against my recommendation.”

_I’ll bet._ No, that wasn’t fair. Terran probably _had_ recommended post-captivity programs, but Greg doubted he had fought all that hard when Hamilton refused. “Well, whatever Esmie is dealing with, she’s doing it all on her own.”

Terran’s phone buzzed with a new message, one the subject brought up immediately. Greg heard their primary subject’s voice, announcing the date and time.

“It’s him,” Terran confirmed. “Taken a minute ago.”

Another voice rose from the phone. _“Please, pay them and end this.”_

“Spike, find them.” Soft, firm, confident.

Spike twisted around in his seat. “Give me the phone.” Terran surrendered it at once. “I’ll see what I can do, Boss.”

Sam’s steady tones came over the comm, filling in the blanks as Parker’s own phone buzzed. “Joaquin Vargas works for the city’s Marine Maintenance Department. Ferries, freighters. Empty ship, nice remote location.”

Raf drolly pointed out, “Only if you’re sure there isn’t anybody on it.”

Braddock was ready for him. “ _The Great Lakes Navigator_ , cargo ship out of Michigan, it’s been decommissioned for a week. Work doesn’t start till Monday. There’s a couple ferries there that are the same, so could be any one of them.”

In the seat beside him, Spike juggled both his laptop and the phone, straining to get his team a location. “Those are 1200 amp genies behind him. There’s two of them. It’s definitely a ship. You don’t need that power for a ferry.”

Greg nodded once. “A cargo ship’s the target then. Spike, find us a location.”

“Copy that.”

Adjusting his course a moment to free one hand, Parker pulled his phone out enough to see the message. And bit down on a curse.

WE HAVE FOUND IT  
IT IS ON A SHIP

* * * * *

The first thing he heard was laughter. Dark, haughty – the kind of laughter that delighted in the suffering of others and _enjoyed_ inflicting further torment. His hands were bound behind his back and his throat felt tight, as if there was something wrapped around it. Exhaustion dragged, a familiar burden after his week of dreams, fake reality, and nightmares.

Awkward, Wordy shifted, managing to get his legs underneath him enough to reach a kneeling position. More was impossible with his hands restrained. He looked up – and felt his world tip sideways.

“Hello, little knight,” Morgana Le Fay sneered. One finger reached out and tipped his chin up. He jerked his head away from the ice of her touch and laughter rang once more. She circled him, a raven predator with fresh meat. “I was _so_ disappointed we could not get better acquainted when last we met, little knight.”

“You mean when you _kidnapped_ my Sergeant’s _soul_ ,” Wordy retorted.

“ ‘Twas not _I_ , little knight, but Tolay who did that.”

“You were helping him.”

Cold emerald weighed him, then she threw her head back, harsh laughter echoing around them. “That is true,” she agreed, wild hair flying with every movement. She paced the other way and paused. “My, my…” Morgana purred. “What have we here, little knight?”

Icy fingers found his bracelet and Wordy’s teeth bared in a snarl as he fought to jerk away again. “Don’t touch that!”

Instead her magic flooded the runes, sending ice jabbing into his veins as the healing bracelet obediently took the charge. Wordy writhed as his limbs turned cold and numb, the chill extending into his chest as well. When she was done, he toppled sideways, unable to keep himself upright any more. Cold enveloped him, her magic harming even as it healed, and he huddled in on himself as much as possible, shivering uncontrollably and teeth chattering.

Morgana seized his hair, dragging him up to his knees once more. At first, it didn’t register, then it did. He didn’t _have_ enough hair for her to grab, so how… She chortled in delight at his confusion, moving behind him once more to seize Claire’s project, her magic surging through the crystals and runes. Chill turned to ice, squeezing his chest; he gasped for air.

He couldn’t fight when she wrapped her fist in his hair, hauling him to a railing to peer over the side. Below them, a man and a woman faced each other, the woman on her feet with a knife in her hands and the man huddled next to a wall, on his knees with a blindfold around his face. Morgana let him get a good look, then yanked him back; he yowled as illusory hair protested being used as a lever, then he was on his back, staring up at the dead madwoman above him.

Harsh raven shrieks passed for renewed laughter, then Morgana knelt next to him, cradling his chin in her hand. Cold, she was so _cold_ …and so was he… “You and yours,” she murmured, stroking his hair with her other hand, “You gave me this chance. I live once more, little knight, because of _you_.”

How…? How had his _team_ given this…this _lunatic_ …a second chance?

Her smile pieced his soul. “A Life for a Life,” she hissed. “That is the Law, the Law your precious Wild Mages transgressed, all _three_ of them. They defy the Old Religion and it rises to extract _vengeance_ for their arrogance. Their _naïve_ belief that they may reclaim a Life without paying the price.”

From below them, words drifted up and Morgana paused, her smile vicious as she let her captive listen.

“Hey. You’re doing the right thing letting me go. It’s best for everybody if this just… This is all over.” The man.

Wordy froze at the woman’s reply. “Over?” He was no negotiator, but he _was_ Team One. This guy had just escalated her.

And naturally, he wasn’t smart enough to _shut up_. “I know you don’t wanna hurt me. It’s just a business deal, I get it. Soon you’ll have your money. It’ll be like this never happened.”

“It won’t be over soon.”

_Oh, no._

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“It’s never over.”

_Oh, no, no, no._

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

Her words spat poison at her captive. “No, you’re right, you don’t understand.”

_Nononononono_. He didn’t understand, but Wordy did. He gazed up into frozen emerald and understood, all too well. She smiled, but waited, cocking her head to the side as she listened.

“You don’t have any idea what you did to me.”

“What I did? What have I ever done to you?”

_Would you just_ shut up _!_

Another male voice broke into the conversation. “Esmie. We gotta go. The police are here.”

_Sarge!_ Wordy twisted, reaching for the anchor and _screaming_ for help. Nothing save laughter from his captor. Ice knifed through his mind, slicing at his one link to his team. Pain engulfed him, but the anchor held. After a moment, he realized…she wasn’t trying to break the anchor…just stop him from _using_ it.

Panting, he could do nothing save lie there and listen to the drama unfolding below.

“No, no, no. If we leave now, I have nothing.”

The new arrival understood, while Wordy did not…but he could hazard a guess or two. “We’ll find a way. But if we don’t go--”

Determination rang, the desperation underlying it almost as loud. “No, no. This ends here.”

Time stopped. He felt the darkness, the _unnaturalness_ , and knew the Witch couldn’t hold it for long. She leaned over him, her lips only a centimeter from his ear. “Camelot rises and I shall cast it down farther than it _ever_ fell before!”

For an instant, power screamed around him and the world turned black. Then a knife cut through the fabric around his eyes, slicing a few strands of hair loose.

“Esmie, don’t!”

“Look at me,” she demanded. He looked, gazing up at a woman – a beautiful young woman who walked with a cane and had lost more than he could even imagine. “Now do you understand? Do you see?” she screamed at her captive, knife clenched tightly in her fist.

He cringed back against the wall he was kneeling beside, panting. Struggling to figure out the stage lines for where he’d just been landed. Ruffled dark blonde hair, cut short, but still long enough that the bangs hung over his forehead, shook in time with his labored breathing and trembling. Blue eyes gazed up at his captor, fear, sympathy, and sorrow mixing in their depths.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, not daring to say anything more. Hoping, praying he wouldn’t escalate her even more.

She stared at him, dismay twisting her face at the lack of recognition on his. “You don’t know?”

Confusion furrowed his forehead, brows drawing together, sweat gleaming on his face and in his hair. The sweat dripped down his arm, trickling over the two bracelets on his left wrist. Green runes flickered, shifted to black, but the ice remained in his veins. Around his neck, a black leather choker embedded with a crystal went unnoticed in the darkness. Magic curled around the crystal, which glowed a tainted red, black mixing and streaking the bloody hue.

Her brother called her name, but she stayed focused on _him_. “You don’t know who I am?”

Blue unfocused and Wordy gasped as if he wasn’t getting enough air; though his body shook with fear and dread, chest heaving for oxygen, his silence made the answer clear to her.

Her grip tightened on her knife. “Then I’ll make sure that you never forget.”

Unnoticed by either sibling, the badge on their captive’s belt flared to life, the eagle above the crossed sword, rifle, and wand letting out a silent cry.


	8. Faith in My Team

Grieving, escalated female subject, check.

Subordinate male subject, check.

Choker around his neck, making him look like the subjects’ captive and draining him dry, double check.

_I don’t think I’m makin’ it home tonight, Shel…_ Still, he had to try. Couldn’t just curl in on himself and give up.

“My name is Esmeralda Vargas. I worked for you and you abandoned me.”

The constable kept his mouth shut. Anything he said now _would_ be used against him.

“We gotta go now. Es, now,” the brother pleaded, but the woman’s eyes stayed on him. No, not ‘the woman’…Esmie.

“I was the fourth employee taken. The employee they _mutilated_ to make you pay.”

Dear God. M2, express kidnapping…what happened when the company got sick of being blackmailed with their own people? What happened when you drew a line in the sand and said, ‘No more’? He was a cop, not a businessman – and that meant he knew. Sometimes, you couldn’t get everyone out alive. Sometimes, no matter how hard you tried, you were left with broken people and broken families sobbing and howling at the moon for answers that would never come. Sometimes, you were even left with _cops_ screaming for those answers.

He’d stayed silent too long. “They took a piece of me and sent it to you!” she screeched.

“I’m sorry.” Pathetic, inadequate, and likely to make her even madder. But what else _was_ there?

“You were willing to bargain with my life, for what?”

“I’m sorry you were hurt,” Wordy whispered, air rasping against his dry and tightening throat. “I’m sorry they took their anger at…at me out on you.”

“What gives you the right to decide?”

Meek wasn’t working…and his vision was getting blurry anyway. Might as well go out with a bang. He lifted his head, doing his best to find her eyes. “I…I know a guy. Great guy, great cop. He told me once, ‘Sometimes we can’t help’.” A ragged breath accompanied his resigned head shake. “It’s true. We can’t save everyone, Esmie. Sometimes we can’t even save ourselves.”

“You can afford a few thousand dollars,” she spat.

“I have Parkinson’s,” he blurted, struggling to stay upright. “One day…one day, it’s gonna kill me. No matter how much money I have, it’s gonna kill me.” A bitter laugh. “But before that, it’s gonna turn me into a helpless shell of a man. Had a doctor tell me I was gonna die with my mind in tatters, drooling like an infant, and hardly able to move a muscle.” He shrugged at her incredulous expression. “Funny, I never went back to that guy. Go figure.” That was _one_ way to put it.

“You have no idea.” Angry, bitter…grieving for what she’d had.

“Yeah, I do,” Wordy countered. “You lie awake most of the night thinking about it. Maybe you sleep a little…then you wake up and you wonder, ‘What do I want?’ But you already know. You want what you _had_.”

A tear slipped free and the knife quavered. “Yes.”

“I-I can’t give you what you had. Can’t even give _myself_ that. That’s what you _really_ want, Esmie. The money? It means _nothing_ without what you _had_.” He sucked in a breath, his vision narrowing, blackness threatening. “Can’t get back what we had, but maybe…maybe we can get something new. Something better.” A faint smile. “Still got your family, Esmie. They won’t let you fall.” _Just like mine._

Tears ran down her face without her noticing and the knife clattered to the ground. He felt himself fall sideways, felt someone catch him. Gazed up through blurry, darkening vision. “Hey, Sam. Think Sarge’ll make me a negotiator after this?”

Blackness swamped him.

* * * * *

Greg shot past Jules as she and Lou took Esmie and her brother into custody. Sam was still hanging onto Wordy, his expression one of pure confusion. Blue eyes lifted to his boss. “How’d Hamilton know my name?”

The Sergeant ignored the question in favor of focusing on his constable. It wasn’t good…Wordy was pale, sweating profusely, and utterly limp in Sam’s grasp. On his belt, his Auror badge gleamed, its silent cry echoed by his own badge – he’d never realized the _badges_ had their own alert system…not until his Auror badge had flared to indignant life right in the middle of their entry onto the cargo ship. Grim, the Sergeant plucked the badge off his constable’s belt and turned on his heels to give orders. “Jules, search the rest of this area, see if you find anyone else,” he snapped, passing her the Auror badge, just in case. “Raf, get the subjects out of here and take their statements. Find out if anyone else was in on this.”

Twin ‘Copy’s greeted his commands, but Greg didn’t move until Raf had guided their subjects out. Then he swiveled back to Wordy…who’d regained consciousness.

“Sarge?” he croaked.

“Don’t try to talk,” Greg murmured. “Sam, lemme get his hands free.”

Sam shifted his burden enough to give his boss a good look at Wordy’s bound wrists. Pulling a short knife, Parker cut the ropes, yanking them away; his eyes locked on two bracelets. The mithril bracelet was dim and dark…completely out of magic. The golden bracelet’s crystals glowed…all but the last, which flickered weakly in the dim lighting.

“Don’t…” One eyebrow quirked in question and Wordy rasped in a breath. “…pull a Roy, Sarge.”

“No promises, Constable Wordsworth.” Their hovering teammates jerked in shock and dismay, but Greg didn’t _care_. He would _absolutely_ ‘pull a Roy’ if that’s what it took – he was _not_ losing his constable. He was _not_ going to tell Shelley that her husband had been kidnapped, his life and magic used to power a curse until he gave out from the strain.

Black leather caught his eye…right around Wordy’s neck, with a bloody crystal gleaming in the hollow right below the brunet’s Adam’s apple. _There._ An ugly, ragged choker, wrapped tight, the crystal’s bloody hues streaked with shadows.

The vessels. He could’ve cried, could’ve cursed. If _only_ he’d realized what was going on last _Monday_ , then maybe they wouldn’t be here. Merlin and the house-elves would’ve _found_ this thing before it ended up around his constable’s neck.

“Greg, what’s going on? That’s _Hamilton_ , not Word.”

“No, Eddie, it’s not.” Grim determination fueled him. He would _not_ let the ‘living vessel’ die, not without a fight. “Sam, hold him steady.”

“Copy.”

He reached for the choker, just managing to get two fingers between leather and skin. Parker yanked…and hissed as the choker shocked him; Wordy moaned, jerking his head away as the choker made its displeasure known. Bleary blue-gray eyes regarded Greg as he inspected his throbbing hand and worked the fingers.

“Don’t.” The word slurred, but the Sergeant understood. “Sh’ sa’d…”

“No, Wordy, don’t try to talk.” He didn’t _care_ what ‘she’, whoever ‘she’ was, had said. He _wasn’t_ giving up.

“Greg, you okay?” Ed demanded. Surveying the fallen Wordy, he added, “I’ll call the EMTs for Hamilton.”

“No time,” the Sergeant retorted. Without waiting for a reply, he hauled the barely conscious man up out of Sam’s grip, slinging the constable over his shoulders in a fireman carry. “You hold on,” he hissed as he carried Wordy out of the ship. “You do not have permission to die.”

Outside on the deck, Greg let his teammate down, careful to keep his head from hitting the metal as his free hand punched in Merlin’s new number on his phone. He pulled it up, ignoring his confused, hovering teammates. “Hey, it’s me. We got a problem.”

“So I see.”

Team One whipped sideways, reaching for their weapons. “Team One, stand down!” their Sergeant barked. Hazel shifted to grim blue. “Can you save him?” Not help. Save.

The ancient warlock strode over and knelt, examining the choker with a low hiss. “Morgana.”

Horror lurched in Greg’s chest. “ _She’s_ here?”

“She will have fled once the show was over, Sergeant,” Merlin replied. “If he dies, the spell breaks – she knew that before she put that on him. Likely she herself was powering the curse before now.” Grave, Emrys shook his head. “Only the person who put the choker on can take it off, Parker. I used a variation for the bracelet.”

“There’s _got_ to be a way,” Greg half-argued, half-begged. Sweat drenched the front of his uniform as Wordy – now only semiconscious – mumbled to himself and feebly twisted his head back and forth, the illusory hair soaked with moisture rubbing against black fabric.

Merlin frowned, considering, then cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps…” he murmured. “You are linked together, yes?”

A tight nod.

“If, perchance, you were to ‘pull’ on this link with all your might at the final moment,” Merlin mused, folding his hands together. “You would then anchor him while I removed the choker and restored him to life.”

Let Wordy _die_? _That_ was Merlin’s big plan? “And if I mistime it?”

The warlock shrugged, the implication clear.

Inside, his gryphon half screeched defiance, infuriated by the threat to _his_ Pride. Did this witch think to foil a _gryphon_? Did she think to defy a _Wild Mage_? Did she _believe_ she could _take_ one of _his own_?

_You can’t have him…he’s_ mine _._

Hazel blazed scarlet, his snarl audible as he wrapped his fingers around the choker again, his own magic batting the choker’s defenses aside – weak, _pathetic_.

_You should not have hurt my friend._

He yanked, fury boiling, flooding his veins and muscles. Fangs bared as gryphon strength fought Dark Magic. As _Wild Magic_ fought a Witch’s malice.

The choker _snapped_ , the crystal shrieking as it fell to shards. A tidal wave of magic slammed outwards.

* * * * *

He wasn’t in Toronto any more. He stood near a lake that seemed to bend and twist right before his eyes. Not meant for him…not while he was alive at any rate…

_“The Lake of Avalon.”_

He turned his head, somehow unsurprised that a woman had joined him without making a sound. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but he already had someone. More than one someone.

She smiled, cocking her head to the side. _“Only a man who is truly in love is immune to a veela’s allure.”_ Her smile turned wistful. _“We often judge our potential mates on whether they can resist our allure.”_

“I see.”

Laughter rang around him, a joyful, light laughter. _“You do not, but that is as it should be,”_ she corrected. Her eyes, dark and fathomless, turned intent. _“I owe you a debt.”_

He backed up. “Pretty sure you don’t.”

The lake nearby vanished, as did the sky above them. _“Tash… Thrives in Chaos. War comes, young knight. And I_ owe _you.”_

Fingernails like talons lifted.

There wasn’t time to scream.

* * * * *

The fifth crystal blazed, emerald filling its interior and hurling light into the world around it. The other four crystals _thrummed_ , each of them lighting up as well. Air swirled, a mix of silver and black. Fire roared, scarlet at the heart of its heat. Water lapped at its enclosure, all deep blue serenity. Earth held a steady yellow, firm, constant, and enduring. And Life sang with laughter, with joy and friendship, and family that was _more_ than blood.

Power crisscrossed, gold vibrating as the five crystals channeled power through each other and into the mithril bracelet below. Runes came to life, the healing runes frantically dumping magic into the limp form that depended on them. Blue-gray snapped open, fading to gray after an instant as the blood crystal’s effects vanished.

Wordy’s chest heaved in air and Sarge rolled him on his side as he started coughing, shivering as his body fought to equalize. He glanced up in time to see his boss’s fangs, right before gryphon teeth and eyes shifted back to human, but his hacking occupied most of his attention. His _bones_ ached.

“Well done, Sergeant.”

“You provoked me.” Dry, unamused, and yet resigned.

“I did,” the ancient warlock agreed quietly. “You had the best chance, regardless.”

“I’m _Squib-born_.”

“With Wild Magic,” Wordy managed to rasp.

“Quite so,” Merlin acknowledged, tipping his head in the constable’s direction.

A glance around revealed why none of his teammates were speaking up; Emrys had stopped Time…but it wasn’t as unnatural as Morgana’s spell had been.

Merlin frowned deeply. “I shall see to the aftereffects,” he declared firmly. “Morgana seeks to force magic upon a world scare prepared for such a revelation.”

“She _wanted_ us to break the curse,” Sarge hissed.

“She did. No doubt that is why she overlooked several details in her casting of it, the better to make an utter _debacle_ in the aftermath.” Sorrow gleamed. “I wish Magic’s return as much as she does, but this…this will do naught but ignite another Purge.”

The two SRU cops winced.

“By this time tomorrow, only you and your fellows will know this curse ever happened. I shall ensure all is returned to its proper place.”

“Thank you,” Sarge murmured. “Raf?”

“Will get all the credit due him for his able assistance,” Merlin reassured them. In a whip of wind, the warlock was gone, Time had restarted, and the rest of Team One was gawping in horror at them.

“Eddie,” Sarge said, glancing up from his shaking, shivering constable. “Call the Healers. Lewis, go help Jules find Hamilton. And one of you find Wordy a blanket.”

* * * * *

Within ten minutes, Hamilton had been located and Wordy was on his way to St. Mungo’s, leaving the Boss behind to explain the chain of events to their teammates and wrap up the end of the call.

* * * * *

The brunet sighed as he sank down at his kitchen table, the two bracelets around his left wrist jangling together. Exhausted didn’t even _begin_ to cover it and he was still shivering after Morgana Le Fay had used her magic to power his healing bracelet, if only for a few minutes.

Still, that wasn’t the worst of it. Sarge was losing control, slowly, but surely. The gryphon was pushing itself forward, influencing his boss’s reactions more than he knew – again and again, the effects worsening as time passed. What should he do – what _could_ he do?

His own words came back to him: _I want what I_ had _._ Did he? A life before magic, before his Sarge’s two teenage charges, before his Parkinson’s diagnosis.

“Daddy!”

Claire arrowed into him, hugging him with all her might.

“Hey, pumpkin, how was school today?”

She hugged him tighter. “You ‘member,” she whispered, almost to herself, over and over.

He swung her up, enjoying her delighted giggles. “Yeah, kiddo, I remember and so does everyone else.” Pretending to stagger, he groaned, “I think you’re getting too big for this,” before setting her back down on her feet.

She gazed up at him, then nestled into his chest, sighing contentment. He hugged her back, setting the day’s problems aside. Tomorrow…he could deal with them tomorrow. “So, sweetheart,” Wordy began, guiding his daughter towards her bedroom. “Did you put my Auror badge on my belt this morning?”

“Uh-huh.”

He smiled. “You did good, Claire. Real good.”

He tucked his daughter into bed and headed for his own, snuggling in next to his wife. And for the first time in over a week, Constable Wordsworth slept without dreaming.

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fade to black and cue _Flashpoint_ end theme. I hope everyone enjoyed the latest episode twister. I did consider skipping over this episode entirely, but then my muse decided to cackle and came up with a humdinger of an idea - and I ran with it. I hope everyone had just as much fun as I did.
> 
> As always, I adore comments and am much obliged to anyone willing to spare the time to leave one. In other news, our next story, "Tower of Babel", will kick off on Tuesday, January 21st, 2020.
> 
> Happy New Year and See You on the Battlefield!

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas Eve from 2019, everyone! Don't forget, tomorrow is, of course, Christmas and I'll be posting the annual Christmas oneshot tomorrow for your reading enjoyment. Should anyone need a brief break from family and Christmas cheer, you're quite welcome to enjoy.
> 
> Merry Christmas and God Bless Us, Every One!


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